Of Steel and Stars
by battlenotwithmonsters
Summary: And all men kill the things they love, but let it now be heard some do it with a mighty blow, some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword. EOC
1. Chapter 1

'**Kay, Just a memo…Um, my first POTO fic, so be tolerant. I was inspired to make the action a little slow, so also be patient. Erik will soon appear, so have faith, good comrades!**

**The absolutely delicious Gerard Butler as Erik pants like a love-struck dog my. God. He's . YUMMY! (I would say more, but I'm being censored)**

**Everybody in the 2004 movie is in this in their respective roles. The Phantom has green eyes. Not gold, not blue, not any other color except green with gold flecks. Deal. Some blasphemous little nits have him with blue eyes. AAARRRGGGHHH! This drives me insane…which is silly because I'm already Insane…heh heh.**

**I don't own the characters groans but I am doomed to be their obedient slave for ETERNITY! **

**Anywho, nativedreamer, you rock my socks! You're phantastic!**

**Anyway, please read and review, because in my fading self-esteem, I may kill myself and not update! Then you'd be sad. MWAHAHAHAHA! Flames welcome! I'm just lonely and need someone to talk to me, even if they rant!**

**And will I write again, for now I find…The fanfic that I'm writing as I sing**

**Is in my mind…**

It was cold. Too cold for September. A thick coating of frost covered every surface, rendering the world in spotless white. Two figures strode through the Paris alleyways, their feet making crunching noises that pierced the still air.There was a blond and a brunette, walking side by side. The chestnut-haired beauty was almost abnormally tall, voluptuous and unspeakably graceful in her every movement. She wore a dress of the finest silk, colored pink, and cut to expose an expanse of lily-white bosom framed by ribbons and lace. Her lips were crimson and full, and her thick, generous lashes framed reddish brown eyes that now were flashing with unsuppressed cruelty at her companion.

The other girl was almost a polar opposite of the woman who gripped her wrist in her crimson nailed hand so fiercely. Her hair, which fell in a greasy, filthy braid to her midcalf might have been the rich color of antique gold if anyone had cared to wash it. Her left eye was a rather startling, icy shade of blue that sparkled like a diamond, and was framed by thick lashes much darker than her hair. He right eye was predominantly green, and her pupil was ringed with a thin layer of hazel. Violet flecks were visible only in certain lights. She was not as tall as her captor, but retained a willowy grace that showed in every movement, and differed from the other's stately stride. She was about five feet four inches tall and was slightly built. Her feet were bare, and she was clad only in a thin, grayish white dress inappropriate for the weather.

They had been traveling for almost a month now, pausing only for sleep. The queen had stayed in the choicest inns, the girl in the choicest refuse heaps. The former was still as rosy and blossoming as ever, but weeks without food had taken a lot out of the latter, and her ribs poked through her dress. There were circles under her eyes, and she walked with the posture of one who bears the weight of the world on their shoulders, and has been doing so for many years.

" Isobel…" said the golden-haired girl to her companion " pardon me for asking, but will we be there soon?"

Isobel cast her a disdainful glance " Adrian, this only proves how stupid you are! We are already here, you idiot!"

Adrian painfully craned her neck to see. The Opera Populaire loomed above her like a gargantuan tree riddled with passageways through which its inhabitants could travel. The white marble steps that led to the door almost glowed in the freezing dark of the night. The golden nudes guarding the entranceway held the now extinguished torches high above the glass paned doors.

Adrian shivered. She would be lucky if she didn't get frostbite; the cold that had seeped into he bones through her thin dress and threatened to consume her if she didn't obey her body's cry for warmth.

" Isobel, please, when will we go inside?"

"Now" Isobel strode to the back of the Opera House with Adrian in tow, giving her a vicious twist of the wrist when she stumbled.

" You must enter the building from this entrance." Said Isobel imperiously, pointing to a drain cover encrusted with filth. "The tunnel will continue to grow smaller as you proceed, but that is no reason why you shouldn't come out alive. I will meet you at the other side. Don't keep me waiting."

Adrian winced, and nodded. There had been a definite threat in that last sentence, and she knew from experience that Isobel always made good on her threats

As Isobel turned to go, the girl called out softly, " Where are you going?"

Isobel sneered. " My presence in such a place as this will not be questioned. Yours on the other hand…" Her voice trailed off as her eyes trailed to the obvious bloodstains on Adrian's sleeves. And with a flash of her lacy petticoats and white fur shawl, she was gone.

Adrian looked at the drain. The rust and grime encrusting it showed that it had not been cleaned in many years, and the rustling sounds and stench rising from the darkness gave a clue as to its contents. But she gritted her teeth, lifted the grate and slipped in.

The stench was almost paralyzing now, and the muck and insects that coated the bottom oozed up over her fingers. There was enough room to stoop, but she knew that she would make it faster if she went on all fours. Not wasting a moment, she began to crawl through the darkness.

She had to stop several times to keep her head and attempt to get her breath in the noxious fumes; she was a little apprehensive of enclosed spaces, but the fear of Isobel's wrath kept her going. As Isobel had said it would, the tunnel got progressively narrower, till she was forced to slither on her stomach, using the weld marks in the slimy metal to push herself along. She was beginning to panic now, and her breath came in quick gasps. The stench choked her, and the inhabitants of the drain were none too pleased by her presence. Cockroaches, silverfish and water beetles scurried through her hair, and the occasional cat-sized rat gave her a nasty bite before going on its way. There came a heart-stopping moment when she ceased to be able to move; the tunnel had become too narrow. She was trapped. Trapped. She was hyperventilating now, her heart beating painfully at her ribs. She would die here, among the rats and the filth, either of suffocation, starvation, or the fear that gripped her like a vice.

No. She had not come this far only to fail. She would not die in a cage! She flung herself spasmodically forward, the ooze serving as a lubricant to propel her, and through some miracle, found herself in a stone passageway, free of the stench and claustrophobic build of the drain.

Isobel was standing primly in the hall, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. " Good, I was beginning to think you had died. Come, I will show you where we are to stay. But be quick and quiet, or you will regret it…"

She turned, and gestured imperiously for Adrian to follow her. They wound their way up and up through the labyrinth, passing rooms where there were joyous parties being held, concerts being played, ballet lessons being dismissed. They finally reached their destination, pausing only so that Isobel could turn a key in the lock.

This part of the Populair was no longer used. Years ago, even before the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, there had been a massive gas leak. The entire building had been evacuated and the gas turned off so those workmen could discover the problem. An entire mile of pipe that ran through the place had been eaten away by some unknown substance. When the old manager had calculated the cost of repair versus the loss of that particular wing, he had decided that the money would be better spent in the construction of the new south wing, and had simply turned off the gas in that section. Since no one wanted to stay in a place without gaslights, the entire wing was abandoned. The room that Isobel had chosen had once been the proud lodgings of the great Sorelli's understudy of some bygone day. There were rich draperies adorning the windows, blood red in color with golden fringe. The simple, minimalist woodwork circling the ceiling was rendered in gold. The furniture consisted of a large rosewood dresser and vanity, a brass bedstead and a gilt mirror that stretched from the floor almost to the ceiling. Although everything in the room was of finest quality, the simple design was soothing on Adrian's nerves. There was a thick coating of dust on every surface, but otherwise, the room was very clean. Isobel strode over to a simple wooden chair, spread her skirts about her, and with a curt nod to Adrian, intoned," Clean this up."

Adrian wanted nothing more than to disobey, to fall into bed, to rest, to disappear into a dreamless sleep, but instead, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She tore a scrap from her dress and carefully dusted and polished every surface till it gleamed. She unhooked the draperies and dangling them out the window, flapped them fiercely to free them of dust. She did the same with the sheets and blankets on the bed. Oddly enough, there were no carpets on the hardwood floors, and the gleam of the floor's surface was enough that she could see herself in it.

After an hour, the work was done. But the room still remained dark. Isobel provided a solution by procuring candles from the other rooms. Adrian fixed them to the now useless oil lamps, and lighted each one with a book of matches she found in one of the dresser drawers. When she stepped back to view her handy-work, she was greeted by a golden radiance that emanated from every object in the room as the polished materials caught the candle's glow.

Yes, this could possibly be home.


	2. Chapter 2M Bufont

**H'lo again, laddie-me-love! Just to reply to some people whose names I forget (don't take it personally, **I can't remember…what was I talking about?**) About the expensive furniture…it went out of style, and that was only one room. The others are picked clean I assure you. R&R!**

Andre sighed deeply, and rubbed his temples as if to rid himself of a headache. It had not been an easy day for the little man. He had awakened at three A.M. to open the opera house, spent a good part of the morning interviewing people for jobs, had had to skip lunch, had received a letter from the new manager that he would arrive in four months, not weeks, and now this. His secretary had ushered in a girl who was one of the strangest he had ever met (and he had met a lot of girls). She was of normal height, slight build, and wore her golden hair in a large flat bun at the back of her head. A braid fell from the bun to her midback. She wore a dark brown, simple dress that started at her chin and ended at the floor. She was unadorned and unperfumed. She would probably be considered lovely, if it weren't for her eyes. When she had walked in, he had estimated her age at sixteen, but the second her eyes had met his, she became ageless with the wisdom of eternity. It unnerved him to see that cynicism coming from such a young face. One eye was blue, the other green. But he had only seconds to observe this, because she had blinked once, and a glassy wall had come over her countenance.

Firmin had done the smart thing: cut all of his losses, took his share of the money and moved to England for a life of marital bliss with the Countess DuBois. But of course, Andre _had_ to stay in Paris and collect the extra money from the buyer. He sighed again and sat back in his chair, his thoughts turning back to the girl.

She had come for a position as a lady's maid to one of the Opera stars. Since Mlle. Debrah DeFleurette, the new diva, who had requested a lady's maid to look after her at her arrival, was arriving in a week from Provence, Andre had given the girl that job, but in the meantime signed her on as Madame Bufont's assistant. Then he had asked her name as he filled out the papers.

She looked as if she had been slapped. He could almost see her mind cogs whirring round and round through her eyes, and then her gaze rested on his diamond broach. She relaxed and gave her name in a clear voice, " Adrian Cartier". This made him feel slightly suspicious of her. It was as if she didn't have a surname, and had adopted it from the diamond. But Mlle. Cartier wouldn't be a problem as soon as that confounded Monsieur Duval arrived to take the blasted place from him. Then he could use the money to buy a nice big mansion somewhere in Brest, down at the seaside, with lots of pretty maids and plenty of sunshine. The thought cheered him considerably, and he let out another sigh, this one much happier than the first.

As Adrian glided from the room, she let out a sigh of relief. She had a job, Isobel wouldn't be mad, and the manager had accepted her surname without question. As she walked down the hall in search of Madame Bufont, she mulled over the events of the night before.

The room had the luxury of running water and a flush toilet in the porcelain bathroom. The window was a stained glass depiction of a mermaid. Her back was to the viewer, her head looking over her shoulder. Isobel had stripped Adrian down to the skin and had plunged her into the scalding water, proceeding to scrub down every inch till her skin was pink with the friction. Isobel then untangled her hair, with not the slightest care about yanking it right out of Adrian's head. When Isobel had finished, the girl staring at Adrian in the mirror was human.

It was easy for Isobel to steal some clothes for her charge to wear; almost everyone was fast asleep by then. The dress was perfect; dull and conservative. She could practically disappear if she wore it, it hid her from the world outside.

" Now" said Isobel, straightening her pink skirts, " tomorrow morning, you will go to Andre, the manager and request a job as a lady's maid. No one will question you for being in any place at any time. Just say you are on your mistress's business. I have some errands to run in the city, but I will see you in this room at the day's end. Do not disappoint me Adrian." " Yes Isobel." " And keep yourself guarded! I won't have some well-meaning boob messing with our affairs. If they do, then…"

" Oh, no Isobel! Please, not again!" Adrian's voice was pleading. So many innocent people had suffered because they had messed with Isobel's affairs.

The brunette gave a cold smile. "Then see that you follow my orders. Now go to sleep. I don't want them to turn you away because you look like a harlot in the morning."

Adrian turned the corner and descended the steps. The errand boy had said that M. Bufont was expecting her in her office.

Adrian knocked on the door. "Come in!" snapped a voice as sharp and crisp as if it had been cut from paper. The tiny woman at the desk impressed Adrian.

Her graying black hair was pulled sharply into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were gray and sharp as a sword. She was all of five feet tall, but she possessed an air of command befitting a woman of larger stature. She must have been in her late fifties, but the energy with which she was pounding at the typewriter spoke of military strength and discipline.

The little woman looked up sharply. " My new assistant, I suppose?" She was testing the figure in the doorway. The girl passed admirably. Without a hint of fear or intimidation, she quickly answered in the affirmative. Madame Bufont's tone immediately softened, if just a bit. "Good. I hope you will excel better than that flighty creature Georgette, saints curse her. She got herself married and left me all this work on the desk." Madame Bufont gestured to the Mount Saint Paperwork that overwhelmed the room. " Your first job: collect and categorize every paper that isn't on this desk. I want the job applications in one pile, the grant letters in another, and whatever we happen to be sending out in the last pile. You are clear on this?" " Yes Madame."

The small woman had to stare. Never had she seen such efficiency! Like a whirlwind, the golden haired lady flew through the office, straightening piles, creating stacks, scanning papers and generally acting as if she had done so all her life. Not like Georgette, who often mixed things up more than helped them. That silly child was probably in Provence right now, with child already, tripping about and simpering in that flighty lisp of hers.

Madame Bufont looked up from the letter she was typing to someone who wanted to reserve a box for Margarita in the spring. The girl was stacking some letters in the last pile, and appeared to be finished. The girl looked up and their eyes met for a second. Madame Bufont quickly broke the gaze and went back to the letter. Mlle. Cartier's eyes were different colors! And so…old. Those were the eyes of one who has seen and understood all. She had the strange sensation that something was being kept hidden from her in those eyes.

"Madame Bufont, I am finished." The small lady stood, her black skirts rustling. A quick examination told her that everything was in order. " You have done perfectly. May I enquire how you became so skilled?"

"I used to work in a library. There was plenty of organizing to do there." Madame Bufont nodded. It would be a shame to lose one so quick witted at the end of the week. She envied Mlle. DeFleurette. Madame Bufont turned to Adrian, and said, "Come, there is much to do. I assume you can write." Adrian nodded. "Copy these letters and address them to the people on this list. When you are done, meet me in the prop department."

Madame Bufont bustled out of the room and hurried to the prop department. Bertrand would probably need help with all the orders coming in for fake flowers, fur throws and the like.

**Sorry this chapter is so short, but I suppose there needs to be an installment soon, or people will forget me! Know how I said that the main character is crazy? If you can guess how and why, please message me instead of leaving a comment so that no one else will know! Phantom shall appear in Chapter three or four. R&R! ( that's a rose if you can't guess. And if you really can't, please stop leaking stupid juice)**


	3. Chapter 3Erik

**A thought for the chapter: Music is another kind of thought, Thought is another kind of music. Deep, ain't it? I stole that from the Literature portion of the Terra Novas. Who'da thunk it? R&R!**

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"CONFOUND THIS BOAT!" The catlike figure on the bank of the subterranean lake gave the black hull a hearty kick. He had been on his way back from a meeting with Jules when the boat had struck a chunk of rock immersed in the water. Icy water had rushed in sending the boat's occupant into the black depths. He had had to drag the thing all the way back to the shore, and now he was soaking wet and freezing to boot. The severe temperature drop was held accountable for that.

He spent almost an hour yelling at the boat, threatening it to the point where a grown man would be in tears. When he was done, his ranting had restored the circulation to his hands and feet, which he had been aggressively been gesturing with, and leaving the boat with a glare of pure evil, he went to change.

He peeled off his wet jacket, cravat and shirt, and recombed his mussed hair. He sat in a large, red velvet armchair in front of the fire, brooding over his bad luck. Bad luck that seemed to follow him from birth.

" Damn that infernal woman"

Women had always failed him. His mother had shunned him, Madame Giry had betrayed him, and Mlle. Daae' had broken him. As far as he was concerned, the entire female population could go burn in hell. They were just a load of snakes in the grass.

Erik sighed. As good as it felt to say those things, he knew that they weren't true. He couldn't blame his mother for shunning a monster. If Madame Giry hadn't interfered, Christine would have just spent the rest of her time in his grasp lying to him. And he was too smart to fall for it for more than a few days. Then he would just let her go anyway. Just like he let her go that night.

Erik mulled over his mad flight from the mob. He had made his way through Paris' sewers for months till he reached the safe house he had built there. And there he finally had time to mourn his monumental loss. It had hurt. Several times he had contemplated killing himself, but soon discarded it as an option for the weak. The hurt ate him from the inside like a virus, turning his insides into a charred mess. She had done this to him. She, a sweet child, had killed him. And it only took a single kiss.

Then one day, he woke up from his comatose state, and discovered that while it still hurt to think of her, the pain was different. It was somehow impersonal and cold, as if he was out of his body and watching himself from leagues away. It was then that he could return to his home.

When he had gone back to his lair, after cleaning up after his pursuers, he had sat in front of his organ and pressed the keys…and got only a shrieking wail as a response. Perplexed, he had tried again, and got the same discordant sound. Again and again, he tried desperately to create something like music, but each time he failed. In frustration he beat the keys with savage fury, filling the stone halls with echoing screeches. Then he stopped and sat. He sat there for hours; his eyes closed as the candles burned lower, eventually enveloping him in darkness. It felt as if someone was slowly, methodically tearing out each of his veins and filling them with molten lead. He was sinking to the bottom, freezing there, a silent statue of ice. He got up and took an axe from its place on the wall. Walking towards the organ, he raised the axe in preparation to strike. But the weapon dropped from his hand.

He couldn't do it.

He could not kill this part of himself anymore than he could hurt Christine, for all the pain these things had caused him. With a sigh, he pulled a tarp over the instrument, hiding it from view. Music had rejected him from its sweet embrace. He was dead now, without the pale of humanity. Dead.

His soul: dead.

His brain: dead.

His heart: dead.

He would have to start over. He could never forget, but he could start over again. Try to live again.

Back to square one.

The flames' light danced across his mask, giving it a soft glow in the darkness. It had been a year since he had died, and in that year, he had healed more than he thought possible. Her face still haunted him, and her voice still echoed in his halls, but it didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. Life had slowed to a soft neutrality. The only things left were boredom and interest, and the second was rare. Mostly he walked through the darkness of the underground tunnels, fencing with shadows till his skill was inhuman. If anything, what he most desired was a worthy, human opponent. But of course, this was impossible, and he contented himself with imaginary foes.

And now he would have to fix his boat. It would take weeks if he were to do it properly. Maybe he would even make some changes for the better.

His mind began to whirl with new plans to perfect the structure for the boat; a new prow, maybe a different kind of varnish. Designs whirled through his head, his thoughts working like machinery; cold, silent and unfeeling.

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**Well, that was just to explain where he's been all this time…I do hope you like it! Please review. Oh, and I thank my reviewers for doing such a goody job! You guys are phantastic! Get it? Phantastic? Like Phantom?…Whatever.**


	4. Chapter 4 Bear

**Please satiate me! Read and Review!**

Adrian walked quickly through the halls of the Opera house towards the prop department. Madame Bufont had said to meet her there for more instruction, and it wouldn't do to be late for anything on her first day. Madame Bufont looked like the sort of woman who would not tolerate tardiness.

The door to the main workshop opened to a celtic knot of arms, legs, faux flowers and glue. Standing in the middle of the mess were Madame Bufont and a man who could have been seven feet tall. Both were talking above the swirling turmoil; they seemed to be very good friends. Madame Bufont saw her and gestured for her to come over.

" Come with us! It's quieter in the office!"

The three wound through the crowd till they reached the big man's office and shut the door. The giant turned to Adrian with a grin. He had a graying-brown beard and head full of hair paired with twinkling blue eyes. He must have been almost sixty, but his smile and eyes were youthful in their gaiety.

"Und who is this fairy-fey? I haf seen such a lovely frauline never before!" Adrian looked at him suspiciously to see if he was making fun of her. But detecting no lie in his booming voice, she relaxed. But only a little.

Madame Bufont gave the giant a disapproving smile, but there was a merriment in her eyes that forgave him.

"Adrian, this is Monsieur Bertrand Wagner (pronounced VAG-ner). You must excuse his forward manner, I am told that all Germans are this way. M. Wagner will be showing you some of the things you must know to take orders from the rest of the Opera House. I will see you at lunch!"

After Madame Bufont left, M. Wagner turned to Adrian. He leaned over slightly to look her in the eye. A grin spread across his face.

"The frauline vill not haf to vorry! I am confirmed bachelor, but I still retain the flowered speech of my youth, yes? Now come, we haf much to do!"

Adrian spent the rest of the day tailing M. Wagner through the various workrooms, her eyes taking everything in. Clearly this man was very popular, for there were many cries of " Good morning, Bear!" (a nickname Adrian found appropriate). He returned them with his brilliant smile, a laugh and a hearty, "Guten tag!"

M. Wagner pointed out various operations and described them with detail. Each faux flower had to be exactly right, the trimming on each tapestry had to match the images they portrayed exactly. He paid close attention to every detail and nothing eluded his gaze.

He seemed to care immensely about whatever problems his employees had with work or their home life, and asked anyone who drew him into conversation about sick relatives, financial problems or whatever seemed to be troubling him or her. At first, Adrian just kept quiet, but his genial manner made it harder and harder to keep herself guarded. Eventually, she decided he wasn't enough of a threat to guard against, and relaxed enough to ask the occasional question. He seemed to enjoy her questions, and answered them to the best of his ability. Though whenever he met her eyes, she detected a trace of fear and puzzlement. This set her on edge, and put another layer between them.

Finally, lunch arrived, and the two made their way back to the office where Madame Bufont was waiting.

"Now tell me, how went your day?"

Adrian made a quick report on the goings on in the prop department. It made the hair on the nape of her neck bristle to have their attention fixed on her, but she spoke clearly and briefly with no hint of fear. When she was done, Madame Bufont produced lunch and set it on a small table in the corner, while M. Wagner pulled up three chairs. The two elders talked about a shortage of camellias while Adrian quietly finished her baguette.

" Mlle. Cartier, there is some paperwork in my office that needs sorting, would you…"

Adrian nodded silently, thanked M. Wagner for her tour and glided noiselessly from the room. The two sat in silence while Adrian exited and her footsteps faded to nothing.

" Bertrand, what do you think?"

The giant scratched his head thoughtfully and smiled.

" You are most blessed to haf such a lovely and competent assistant, Manon. She is intelligent beyond her years, and organized as a library. She asked all the important questions, and I vould not be leery of giving her my position vile I take a break; she is that good. But…"

Manon nodded for him to go on.

" There is something strange about that one. When her eyes met mine, they were like glass eyes! No expression, no feeling, like a snake's! She just watched me, like she knew exactly vat vent through my mind, und she never vonce smiled, she just…I cannot describe it in this cursed tongue! Und the colors! I tell you Manon, not God himself could create them! There is something very strange about the frauline. Very strange indeed. I vould vatch her vere I you."

Madame Bufont gathered her skirts and stood up, thinking over her friend's words. Bertrand's judge of character was usually very accurate, and she had to agree with what he had said. That girl was like a ghost with her solemn, cynical eyes, looking at the world with cold calculation. She would have to watch Mlle. Cartier closely.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Adrian's steps were much heavier than usual. She was tired from the work she had done that day. Paperwork was much more draining than she would have thought. But still, she had a lot of practice in organization from before…

She shook her head to clear it. It would not do to lose control and let anything escape from its mental confines.

She was so very tired. A good night's sleep sounded heavenly, and if Isobel had nothing for her to do, she planned to fall into bed and go to sleep the second her head hit the pillow.

Suddenly, she stopped. She had heard a noise: footsteps. It could not be Isobel, she wore high heels, and this footstep was more of a padding than a clicking sound. Someone had followed her! Sleepy no more, she hastily climbed the steps, pausing every now and then to listen. Blocking the sound of her pounding heart from her ears, she listened again. Nothing. " I must be hearing things.", she thought. It wouldn't be the first time. But just in case, she went slightly faster than before.

Erik frowned thoughtfully. Strange, very strange indeed. Why was a woman living in this part of his Opera House? Normally, people avoided it as much as possible, as it had a reputation to be haunted, but then again, hadn't the last Opera ghost proved to be not so ghostly? At any rate, the place was as dark as pitch at night, and a little creepy.

He had noticed the girl earlier that day when she had entered Madame Bufont's office. She struck him as slightly odd, extremely intelligent and rather lovely. The polar opposite of Christine. Beautiful and innocent that girl may have been, but she was a conformist who wasn't strong on brainpower. This one was shorter, more slender and less voluptuous. Her heart shaped face, golden hair and ghostly pale complexion contrasted sharply with Christine's classical good looks and rosy glow. And her dress! The girl was dressed as if she had just left a nunnery, all in dark brown from head to toe without the slightest decoration to relieve the gloom. Christine rarely wore anything but pink unless a certain role required it. The only part of Mlle. Cartier he hadn't had the chance to examine was her eyes. The way that people stared when their eyes met hers had piqued his interest.

He had watched her work for a time, and the way her fingers moved suggested that she was ambidextrous and double-jointed. Every movement was precise, and she never fumbled once, as if she had everything she was about to do planned exactly in her head.

After a while, he had left, deciding that he didn't want to spend his day watching other people doing paperwork. After whiling away his day sketching new designs and architectural plans, he had returned to Madame Bufont's office at six o'clock to check on the girl. She was just leaving as he arrived. He had slipped into the hallway and followed her at a safe distance till she reached the foot of the stairs leading to the abandoned wing, and lighting a candle, began to go up.

He decided to head her off at the next landing. Using a passageway in the wall, he got there in plenty of time to open a peephole in the ornate carving. All trace of weariness was gone as she topped the stairs. She reminded him of a cat, poised and serious as the sphinx. It was then that he looked her full in the face for the first time.

What threw him off guard was not the coloring of her eyes, but the absolute cynical wisdom that caught the candlelight. In those eyes was every angry, cold, sad emotion ever conceived. It disturbed him greatly to see a mirror of himself in her. She must have been only nineteen. What could have happened to her that could instill wisdom so far from her years?

And suddenly, it was as if her eyes became frozen over; all emotion was gone, leaving a cold, bitter block of ice hewn to female form. She continued up the stairs till she reached the top floor. Opening a door at the end of the hallway, she disappeared within.

He was about to leave, when he heard a voice much different from Mlle. Cartier's. If a diamond could speak, it would sound as this voice did: cold, sharp, imperial and crystal clear. He went close enough to the door to listen.

" Good evening Adrian. You were employed?"

"Yes, Isobel" Her voice was soft and low, almost subservient and edged with weariness. "Do you wish anything of me, Isobel?"

"Not this night Adrian. You must go to sleep."

"Thank you Isobel."

Erik drew back, puzzled. Was this a mother, a sister, or maybe a friend? The tone of the woman reminded him of the way that the little sultana had addressed her slaves; as if they were filth. And the girl's voice made up the slave portion of the partnership. It was strange to think that those eyes could be paired with the voice of the slave. With a shrug, he decided he would address the problem in the morning. Now if he could only remember if there was a mirror passage to that room…


	5. Chapter 5 Change

**Here is a nice long chapter; my Christmas gift to you lovely people who review! I love you Mon Cherie! (I think that's how you spell it...)**

**I will say the following every chapter, so get used to it…Read and Review!**

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"I'm leaving Adrian."

Looking up from the bootlace she was tying, Adrian narrowed her eyes suspiciously. It was five o'clock, and the last day Adrian would be working with Madame Bufont. The early morning sun seemed absent, and the darkness was like that of night.

"What?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow, and won't be coming back till January. I have some business in Provence."

Adrian stood staring at Isobel for several seconds; thoughts whirring like summer crickets. Isobel had never left before! If she had business anywhere, she always took Adrian with her and while she never let Adrian be seen with her, Isobel was never far away. Of all the cruelties in life, Isobel was the constant one, always there to give new rules to follow, punishments if she disobeyed those rules, insults…

But Adrian knew that she owed Isobel her life. No matter how much she hated this vicious taskmaster, she needed her. Isobel was the thorn in her side that drove her to greater effort. When Adrian thought she could run no more, Isobel had urged her with well-articulated threats. If, consumed by exhaustion, Adrian collapsed, a good kick in her side from Isobel set her moving again. When it seemed that the elements would consume her before she could reach shelter, Isobel made her go on till she did. Isobel had put the plan into Adrian's mind that had set them both free. Isobel had guided her hands. Adrian knew she did not dare protest, but losing Isobel for so long…

Adrian nodded slowly, her mouth set into a resolute line. She would manage somehow. If it killed her she would manage.

" Now, you will make enough at your new job to buy food and drink and still have a substantial amount left. When I return, I expect to see no more than I deem necessary gone. Do not disappoint me Adrian. You know the consequences if you do."

Adrian carefully coiled her heavy, long plait at the back of her head. The only outward sign of emotion was the over-forceful manner with which she jammed in the pins.

"As you wish, Isobel."

Isobel smirked. "That's what I thought."

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Manon Bufont was a warm-hearted woman, but did not care to show it. Oscar, her grandson, would not recognize his affectionate grandmother in the slate-eyed manager's executive who ran the Opera house with an iron will. Regardless, over the few days she had known Adrian Cartier, Madame Bufont had grown to care for the girl as a friend. She was soft-spoken, reserved, and extremely competent. The girl's personal life never interfered with her work (which was always done on time) and unlike Georgette, she was sharp as a tack. From talking to her, Madame Bufont had gathered that she was from Marseilles, had heard of a possible position through a friend, her father was a doctor and she grew very defensive when asked questions.

Because of all this, Madame Bufont would miss Adrian quite a lot. Her last day working as Madame Bufont's assistant began like any other: Adrian entered, said good morning, began whatever work that was assigned to her and broke for lunch. But after lunch, Madame Bufont drew Adrian away from her desk.

" I think that you will have the rest of the day off. The woman whom you will be working for is an absolute tyrant. You will need all the rest you can get."

Adrian had nodded slowly.

" Thank you Madame. I will miss working with you and Monsieur Wagner. Good bye." And for a single second, Manon had seen a spark of emotion in her bi-colored eyes; it was something like regret, but mixed with tenderness. As soon as it had arrived it was gone, and Mlle. Cartier had walked out the door, eyes icy as ever.

Manon envied Deborah DeFleurette horribly, and personally thought that Adrian's talents would be wasted as a lady's maid. The new diva was probably a spoiled creature never satisfied with anything at all. A pompous powder puff, all makeup, ribbons and costly jewels. Women like that usually ran their servants ragged with eccentric requests and harsh demands.

Madame Bufont smiled. She had a feeling that Adrian would not be run ragged. If anything, her unnerving silence would drive her mistress to drink. Manon laughed at the thought, and locking the office door, left early, a lightness in her step.

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Adrian kicked the leg of her bed, cursing aloud when the pain came shooting up her foot. More cursing followed, and several birds perched on her window fluttered into the distance in fright. She eventually flopped down on a chair, her face as dark as her mood. It was a relief to be able to vent the anger that she could not show in public.

Mlle. Deborah DeFleurette was the most spoiled, obstinate, childish and spiteful creature she had ever had the displeasure to meet. She refused to do many things for herself, and had Adrian do all the work, which included dressing and undressing, hair styling and mending. In that way, she was a lot like Isobel, but certainly not half as smart. Her room was a riotous pink color with gaudy gold accents. Fat, spoiled cherubs with gilded wings sat plucking their little harps on the ceiling, slightly frightening large eyed kittens with monstrous bows frolicked on the paintings and everywhere there was the smell of lavender. The room itself was enough of an invasion of the senses, but the woman's wardrobe was an insult to good taste. There was so much lace, ribbon, jeweled fringe and fastenings of every kind that it took all of Adrian's skill to undress the woman for bed.

The Mlle. had the plump figure of a Boticelli angel, which would have been pleasing had she not tried to hide with a corset and copious amounts of artfully applied makeup. She had a different offending hat for every dress, and more pairs of ugly shoes that she really needed. She wore her reddish brown hair in ringlets (with bows and feathers, of course), and when fully dressed was an impressive figure, a little like a fat peacock. Her mouth was a bright red bow, drawn in a pout, and she blinked and looked up from underneath her eyelashes a lot. Adrian never thought she could hate someone so passionately and not kill them. Just to give you an idea of what she put up with, here's an outline of her day...

She awoke at five and made her way to the diva's suite to start her job. She was greeted by a tiny, harassed looking woman with a silly little hat almost falling off her head. When the woman spotted Adrian, she indicated that she was to go inside, and after a short pause, whispered, " Are you the new girl?"

Adrian nodded. The woman burst into hysterical peals of laughter and ran down the hall, her hat wobbling dangerously on her complex coif. As you can imagine, this was not a reassuring spectacle.

As Adrian entered the room, she heard a horrible sound that almost pierced her eardrums. The woman was singing. It was a shrill high-pitched sound, something in Italian with a terrible accident.

" You! Girl! Help me get dressed!"

Adrian nearly broke a finger tying up the woman's corset, and almost choked on the amount of powder that flew around the room when the woman made herself up. Powderpuff, the white Persian cat left an inch deep scratch along Adrian's palm when Adrian was asked to "put him in mommy's arms!".

The rest of the day was spent following Mlle. DeFleurette around town carrying her bags while she shopped. It was then that the full extent of the winter's biting cold finally made itself known. Outside, without a coat or gloves, Adrian's hands became almost too numb to move. She desperately wished for some protection, but there was no question of buying any, and she didn't think it would be fair to steal some.

The entire time Adrian was with the idiotic woman, the Mademoiselle kept talking to her in a high-pitched, silly voice.

" Oh, Mlle. Cartier, isn't this pink hat with the swan feathers so darling!"

"What do you think, Mlle. Cartier? The Peacock feathers or the Italian lace?"

The woman's determination to annoy Adrian was maddening as her taste in clothes. By the time lunch was served, Adrian was entertaining fantasies of feeding her employer to a cage-full of starving, rabid rats. The day felt almost endless, but she was finally back in her room, and none too soon.

Adrian ran a finger tentatively over her lips, which had cracked and bled in the cold. She knew that beeswax balm would probably soothe her chapped mouth, but once again, the problem of cost arose. Then a thought came to her: Why not use the food money? She would check in one of the stores on the boulevard , find out the prices of her needed items and calculate for how long she should save.

As long as she didn't spend any more than necessary, Isobel wouldn't get mad. Unless she did. There was always the possibility that even the slightest deviation from Isobel's plans would set her off, and then punishment would come hard and swift.

Adrian stared into the fire and felt its warmth wash over her skin. The memory of the freezing cold still bit into her fingers, making her shiver slightly.

She would take her chances and get those gloves, maybe even the bee's balm. It would be worth it.

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Erik peered through the mirror at the golden-haired girl on the other side. He had never seen her so...emotional. This was completely different from her usual stone slab of a face.

He drew back, his frown slightly puzzled. Why was he so surprised by her cynicism, her coldness? He was exactly like that when he was...nineteen?...twenty? How old was she anyway? She could have been seventeen for her face, but those eyes...

He shook his head sharply to clear it. He never really slept well, but the past week had been a little hectic. It had taken a while for the plans of the Populair's inner workings to surface, the boat had needed completion, but both had been accomplished with more than a little hard work that morning. On looking through the mirror, Erik had been a little disappointed that Isobel had left; he had wanted a good look at the woman who held such power over Adrian.

A good look at the icy Mlle. who was now in his view was just as satisfying. This way, he would have a little window into her life away from other prying eyes.

Stepping back from the mirror, the Phantom rubbed his eyes tiredly. A good night sleep was what he needed. To drift away and deaden himself to the world. He would see the Mlle. in the morning.

Erik let his lips twitch into a smile. For once, tomorrow sounded interesting.

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**Sorry for the long wait. Vacation you know. Enjoy! **


	6. Chapter 6 Prayer

Hello. I know this chapter is short, but I am under the impression it 's pretty good. Rn'R, you little rascals you!

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If Adrian ever heard the name Sir Charles ever again, she felt she would scream. The past three days all Mademoiselle DeFleurette had talked about was her absent sweetheart. He had gone on a "worldwide" safari, and was returning tomorrow. From what she had heard, he was an Englishman, knighted for his courageous exploits in India, and was by the Mlle's standard the "most gorgeous man alive...teehee!" Adrian had a feeling that she would dislike this godling as much as her employer.

But Saturday and Sunday were her days off, and she would have a chance to relax, take a bath, and go out window-shopping for her gloves.

Adrian's stomach growled ominously. Sir Charles hadn't been her only problem. Stinting on food was no fun. She had a bite every now and then to keep herself from fainting, but other than that, she was starving. Watching Debrah DeFleurette consume vast amounts of chocolate pudding was pure torture. Of course getting frostbite would be pure torture too. But she could ignore both, especially when she came back to her room and sat in front of the fire.

Adrian unwound her hair from its bun and let the braid hang loose in preparation for bed. She went to her dresser and pulled out something she had not had time for since she had come to the Opera house.

It was a simple, brown leather bag, tied shut by a piece of twine. The bag was about the size of her hand, the leather worn and smooth to the touch.

Slowly, reverently, Adrian pulled out five little wooden figures, each about the size of her ring finger. They were exquisitely carved as to appear lifelike, every texture painstakingly imprinted upon the yielding wood. Adrian set them up in a row on the vanity and lit a few candles. She stared at the figures for a few seconds, her face unreadable in the flickering light.

Kneeling down, she crossed herself and turned to the first wooden miniature. It was the likeness of an old woman, bent with her years and holding a tiny cat. The crone's face shone with gaiety, her few teeth showing in her smile.

Crow's feet appeared at the corners of Adrian's eyes.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

In the candlelight, the tiny figures appeared to move slightly, their tiny chests rising and falling with each breath.

"Blessed art thou amongst women..."

The old woman was still smiling. For the short time Adrian had known her, she was always smiling, enjoying life even in her advanced years. Her model seemed to say, " It's all right. Everything will be fine. It's all right..."

"And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus..."

She had smiled until those last moments...

" Holy Mary..."

Until those last moments...

"Mother of God, pray for us sinners now..."

Until...

"And at the hour of our death."

Until the hour of her death.

"Amen."

The figure was quickly put away. The second one took center stage in Adrian's prayers. He was a round, happy little friar, whose hair was scarce, but whose good cheer was not.

Adrian began to pray again, her eyes fixed upon the figure. Every night, she had done this, even when she had slept outside in the mud. The last few days, there was no time to attend to it. She had always been too busy. But now, she felt it necessary to pay tribute to those who had not deserved to die, but had died anyway. After the friar came a farmer, his wife and a tall old man with spectacles. All of these had tried to help her, and all of them had paid with their lives. But they had asked too many questions, they were too inquisitive. Isobel had ordered their deaths, and she was satiated.

And it was all Adrian's fault.

Every night she prayed for them, prayed for forgiveness, but in the end, it was a waste of time. Who would forgive her for what she had done? If there was no

God to care for her, there was no God to beg forgiveness from. And yet she prayed. She prayed for herself, for them.

In a way, it proved just how lost she was. She kept away from people because she would hurt them, she came to God because she was lonely. Neither action helped her, but she continued. What else could she do?

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**Tell me what you think. I am not a flame hater really, I just want to make my story better. I hope you love this like a fat boy love cake! Boy that was dumb...**


	7. Chapter 7 Discovery

**Help, I need somebody, Help, not just anybody, Help, I need reviews, would you please, please help me?**

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Erik watched Adrian through the mirror, with no little puzzlement. What was she praying over? They did not look like any deities he had ever seen, but he had to admit that whoever had carved them was more than skillful. The person was an artist. He could make out every detail, from the texture of their clothing to the individual hairs on their heads. The detail was amazing, and in the flickering candlelight, one could almost imagine the figures breathing.

Adrian's face was tired, hopeless, as if she didn't really believe the prayers she spoke. Even as the words left her lips, the truth was in her eyes: she was praying to an empty sky.

Yet another similarity between them. Both were hiding behind masks, both had no one to believe in, both were lonely.

He could not say how he knew these things, but they were solid facts imprinted in her face whenever she was alone.

He drew back from the mirror.

She was an interesting animal. Finding out what made her brain cogs run would add a little interest to his dull existence. Jules hadn't been bringing any new projects lately and the boat was done. He was officially bored.

Jules. JULES! Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why not ask Jules to dig up any and all information he could find on Mlle. Adrian Cartier? A quick search of her room while she was at work would probably turn up something to give him a starting point, and Jules would take it from there!

Of course he would have to be careful. Erik had a feeling that she was the sort who would notice if even a single speck of dust was moved; a stupid mistake would reveal that someone had been searching her room. He might leave a single scuffmark with his shoe that would lead her to the mirror, where she would no doubt find the place where it opened, leading her to his underground lair. He did not want to reveal his presence to her so suddenly. He wanted to give both of them time to get used to the other. Maybe he would leave a note, or better still, an anonymous gift. Choosing such a gift would take thought, but if he chose wisely, it would neither scare her away nor go by unnoticed.

He had only to wait till morning.

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When Adrian woke up, there was no light outside. She stretched and quickly curled into a fetal ball. The pain had hit her out of nowhere. It coursed over her skin like liquid flame, and she bit her tongue to stop herself from crying out. When the sharp lance subsided to a dull ache, she got up gingerly. Sometimes the pain was there, and sometimes it wasn't. It came and went like the tide. It was all His fault really. He had cut the patchwork and then sewn it back up while she lay on the table like a gasping fish being gutted. The tears had not come then, and they didn't come now, but He had left his mark. That was why His death did not merit a single prayer on her part. It was His fault really that she had fallen under Isobel's hands. But then, whose fault was it that she had ended up in His house at all?

Adrian waved the question away for later, and proceeded in getting dressed.

The brush went quickly down the golden mane, untangling the unruly locks mussed by bed head. She carefully braided her hair and began to coil it, but as she did, her shoulders protested loudly.

Probably there was going to be rain soon. She always hurt most before the damp.

When she was fully dressed, she strode down the stairs to her mistress's door, preparing herself for another day of living hell.

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Erik stepped through the mirror and closed it behind him. The room was gloomy, but the candle he had brought along would give all the light he needed.

His search of her dresser revealed the little figures she had been praying over. On closer inspection, they were even more detailed than he had previously thought. It was as if real people had been shrunken to the dolls' proportions and painted with the colors of wood. The only figures that could possibly be saints were the friar and the scholar, but to think so would require a stretch of the imagination.

He was just putting the little figures back, when he felt a hard shape press against his knuckle. It felt a little like a book. He pushed the second dress (another drab, brown affair) in Adrian's collection out of the way to reveal a small book bound in green leather. On the front in gold letters was A Study of the Female Anatomy, Volume III by Dr. Henri DuBoise.

He opened he book to the first page. It was handwritten. The writing was neat and precise and proclaimed: Marseilles, 1855-1870. After was an introduction explaining the doctor's long running career and studies in the effects of surgery on the human body. On the whole it was rather boring, but Erik read it through just the same. The stanzas kept referring to the subject of his experiments, but never gave the individual any identification. Not even a name was mentioned.

Erik flipped through the book, his green eyes skimming the pages lazily. It was only a series of sketches with detailed notes. The subject was portrayed without a face, but it seemed to grow from childhood to maturity as the book went on. The volume ended quite abruptly and there were several blank pages.

Curious. Very curious. What was Mlle. Cartier doing with a book like this? As far as he knew (and he made it a point to track the literary market; life was that dull) this book had never been published. He had heard Adrian tell Madame Bufont that her father was a doctor. Perhaps the book was his. Perhaps he was dead and she kept it as a memento of a beloved guardian. This would explain her withdrawn attitude. Loss of a parent had been known to affect people mentally. Wasn't Christine an example?

But for some reason, this new theory didn't seem to fit. He couldn't say why.

At any rate, Erik had a starting point for Jules. A little research on the book's author would reveal any ties to the point of interest.

Satisfied that his presence was undetectable, Erik let himself out of the room.

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**D'you like it, mine comrades? If so, please review. If you can make any guesses about our heroine's mental state, please drop me a personal message so I know if my writing is too obvious! Je 'taime Mon Amie!**


	8. Chapter 8 Fantasy

**Um, I forgot to do this before, but my story is divided into parts. This is part One (obviously). And I shall give it a name.**

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:PART ONE: ISOBEL : 

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**Thankee readers for wonderful support! Hope you like!**

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It was snowing. The flakes twirled through the air like ballerinas in the middle of a pirouette. They caressed Adrian's cheek with their biting kiss before melting from the warmth of her face.

Unlike the children laughing and shouting and trying to catch the flakes on their tongues, Adrian was not enjoying the snow. And she had an excuse. With snow, there is cold, and without gloves, Adrian's hands were suffering.

"But that's why I'm here" she thought resolutely, pulling a shawl she had borrowed from the prop department a little tighter around her.

"I'm here to find out how long I have to keep starving for a pair of gloves. And when I get back, I'll take a nice, long, hot bath. And a nap"

It was Saturday, Adrian's first day off. She had got up later than her usual ungodly hour, dressed, found the shawl and was now heading down the shopping district in search of a pair of gloves. She was relishing the time to herself after yesterday.

She clenched her jaw a little.

Yesterday...

Yesterday, Sir Charles had arrived. Mlle. DeFleurette had demanded her corset tighter and her makeup more copious for the occasion. The diva was as fidgety as a cat on a hot tin roof, and only made Adrian's job more difficult.

Then came the long expected knock on the door.

"Come i-in!" said the mistress in a singsong voice.

An Adonis stepped through the door. His golden hair was long and curled like a child's, and his sun-browned skin made his blue eyes seem to sparkle. All together, a thoroughly handsome man.

But then his full lips curled into a smile, and the illusion was gone. As white as his teeth were, his smile was ugly. The Adonis had been exposed a Nero. He was exactly like most young noblemen; a spoiled brat who would chase anything wearing a skirt. He and Mlle. DeFleurette were a perfect match.

"Charley!" squealed the diva, and she ran to embrace him. After a long kiss, the lovebirds went to sit on the couch to coo at each other. Adrian was all too happy when they sent her to the Opera house kitchens for refreshments.

The sum of money Sir Charles had given her was more than enough to pay for wine, and with the bottle and change in hand, Adrian made her way back upstairs.

She was about to knock on the door, when she heard something. It was a rather indecent rustling sound punctuated by deep breathing and giggles (I'm sure you can guess what it was).

So, she turned and walked down the hall to wait. It made her sick to her stomach to think of what was going on inside.

When she returned, the sounds had stopped, and she entered to find a blushing and disarrayed diva and Sir Charles, looking hungrily at the woman next to him as a cat does to a mouse. Suddenly, he turned toward Adrian. His eyes wore a lustful, excited expression, and Adrian felt her gorge rise. He looked as if he would pounce on her any minute, and the feeling it gave Adrian was one of horror.

Luckily , Sir Charles turned back to his companion on the love seat before she noticed his attentions had been elsewhere. Adrian poured wine into two crystal glasses and handed them to the lovers who toasted each other and drank them down. As the glasses were lowered, the diva parted her lips rather sensuously, and began to say something in a breathy voice. Then, she seemed to remember that Adrian was standing there.

"Mlle. Cartier, since your workshift is almost over anyway, how about you take the rest of the day off?"

Since the prospect of watching the diva and her company become gradually drunker and drunker and eventually doing something indecent on the couch did not suit Adrian at all, she was all too happy to leave.

And now it was the next day, and for the next forty hours (she got up at eight) Adrian would be free of her employer and Sir Charles.

Adrian bit her lip nervously. Sir Charles posed a threat. Since he could find most of what he wanted to know about Adrian's hours from his mistress, Adrian herself would be a relatively easy target. He could ambush her as she left work, or even if Mlle. DeFleurette left the room for a few moments. The way he had looked at her both puzzled her and filled her with disgust. She was not as pretty or shapely as most of the other girls in the Opera house who would be more than happy about the attentions of such a wealthy man. He was a puzzle as pleasant to open as an occupied coffin.

These dark thoughts on her mind, Adrian opened the door of a small shop and entered, unaware that she was being watched.

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Erik was thankful for the cold. It was easier to wear his mask on days like that, and in such weather his heavy black cloak was not out of place. He had been on his way back from Jules's, and on noticing Adrian decided to follow her.

When she stopped inside a small store selling clothing, he marked the name in his mind: Madame Belle's Boutique.

He reviewed what he knew of the store as he waited for Adrian to exit. It was a place that sold low priced clothing to the middle classes. The store's wares were not of remarkable quality, and were rumored to be stolen. He would stop by later to ask the clerk what a certain lady had bought or inquired about. This would give him an idea of what sort of gift he should give her.

After Adrian exited the shop, he followed as she made her way back to the Opera house. He was slightly puzzled by her attire. The dress she wore was a dark chestnut color, and while the high collar and long sleeves were suited for the weather, the fabric by itself was much to thin to withstand the cold, and the shawl she wore did little to relieve it.

Suddenly, a small woman with stern gray eyes stopped her. It was Madame Bufont. She was smiling.

"Why Adrian, I haven't seen you in such a long while! I have missed you. M. Wagner and I were just about to go to lunch."

Erik noticed a large bear of a man come up behind Madame Bufont.

"Frauline Cartier! I vas afraid I vould see your beautiful face never again! Please, you vould insult me if you did not let me treat you to lunch! You will come, yes?"

Adrian paused, obviously thinking something over.

"Yes, I would be happy to go to lunch with you."

The trio set off down the street towards a small cafe, and disappeared inside. Erik followed them at a safe distance and sat at a table within hearing distance. He pricked his ears for the sound of their voices. Hearing a conversation between Adrian and people she appeared to trust would tell him a bit more about her personality. He remember that the same trick had worked with Christine. In the morning, he watched how she behaved when Meg was around, and then later he knew what sorts of things he could say to make her feel at home and eventually draw her closer.

"-haf you been getting along Frauline?"

The voice was Wagner's. Erik rather liked the big man. He was attentive to his job, not his pretty female workers. He had artistic sense, but also a head for business. Perfect for his position.

"Fine, thank you."

A waiter came to the table to take their orders. There was a shuffling of menus.

"Vat do you suggest, Louis?"

The waiter, obviously well aquainted with M. Wagner suggested the Duck au l'Orange with white wine sauce.

"M. Wagner, for you, I will give discount."

"How generous, Louis! Und also uncommon. I haf been coming here for years und as far as I know, you haf never given even half a franc of discount! You are not drunk, are you?"

The waiter laughed with M. Wagner, and explained that he had been promoted to headwaiter, and wanted to celebrate. There were congratulations from around the table, and the waiter went off.

"So Adrian, how have you been lately?"

Madame Bufont had spoken up.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose."

Adrian's voice, while not icy, was still guarded.

"Come now, you must tell me how you are bearing up to that obnoxious peacock you work for!"

Adrian sighed.

"Well, I suppose she's not unlike anyone else I've worked for. She's childish, spoiled, lazy. And her beaux is worse. He gets drunk whenever he comes to court her, and I don't like the way he eyes me when she isn't looking. All together, a most infuriating couple."

Erik enjoyed hearing her talk. Her voice was oddly soothing, like the sound of rain on the roof; soft and exact. He had to wonder what it sounded like when she was happy. Obviously she liked the two sitting at the table with her. As she spoke, her voice seemed to relax slightly.

They chatted for a while about the Opera house business, till the food came.

The smell that rose from the dishes was wonderful. The spices in the wine sauce mixed with the air to create a perfume that was rich and exotic. There were sounds of thanks, and then a clink of cutlery signified that the meal had begun.

A waiter had made his way to Erik's table. When asked what he wanted, Erik said he wasn't hungry any more and walked out of the restaurant. From outside, he caught a glimpse of the trio he had been eavesdropping on. From this angle, Adrian's face seemed oddly hollow, as if she hadn't eaten for some time. There was a ravenous glint in her eyes like that of a starving animal. Well, it wasn't surprising. The salary she worked on was probably too low to pay for a decent amount of food.

The snow had thickened. Clouds loomed over the city like great beasts ready to consume Paris, and the darkness and the cold became intense. It was a relief to step inside the warmth of Madame Belle's Boutique.

The faded blond stood at the counter picking her nails was probably going to spend the rest of her life working at the shop until a some loser came in and married her and she had a bunch of children who would grow up to be exactly like her and their loser father.

She jumped about a foot in the air when Erik entered the shop and tried to look busy. A quick enquiry revealed that Adrian had been looking for gloves, but had not bought them.

"Shall I wrap them Monsieur?"

"No, but here's something for your trouble."

The clerk stared at the considerable sum of money with absolute shock. When she looked up at the generous donor, he was gone.

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The fickle snow had diminished as Erik neared the Populaire. He was soon beneath the ground in the safety of his home.

So, she wanted a pair of gloves. He had noticed the way she rubbed her hands after being outside. The cold had probably gotten to her small hands quickly. Well Madame Belle's Boutique was not going to fulfill her need for warmth. Something he designed would be much more suitable.

He took a few pieces of paper from their shelf along with a charcoal stick. Her small palms and proportionately long fingers wouldn't fit a conventional design. And the gloves would have to be sturdy enough to withstand the cold, but supple enough to allow for movement.

After about a half-hour, he had perfected his design. The only step remaining would be to create them.

But his body itched for movement. He couldn't sit down for much longer without going insane.

Erik stood, stretched and walked over to his bedroom. There, in its smooth wooden case, gleamed his closest friend: his sword.

Lifting the beautiful creature from its velvet casing, Erik held it up to the light. The skull shaped hilt gleamed as if sculpted from diamond.

Carrying the sword in his hand as tenderly as a living thing, he made his way down one of the passageways that were as familiar and unfrightening to him as pathways in the park were to children.

After an hour of walking, the shadows began to take shape. Soon, it seemed that someone was following Erik with catlike grace. Both stopped and faced one another.

"En gaurde." Erik whispered, fierce amusement playing in his voice.

The fight had begun. The light and dark blades crossed with silent ferocity. Of course Erik's adversary was skilled; it was himself.

After what seemed like hours, the shadow began to weaken. Erik's muscles were bulging from the physical strain, but as the candlelight lost substance, his opponent did too. Finally, the light sputtered out, and the fight was over.

Erik quickly produced a book of matches and lit the candle that had been extinguished.

Fighting shadows was nowhere near as satisfying as battling a real opponent. It felt as if he was cheating somehow.

With a sigh Erik walked back to his home.

He peeled of his sweaty shirt and pulled on a robe, his thoughts turning to Adrian. She was built a bit like a swords woman. He could imagine her with a blade in her hand. A small fantasy began to take shape in his mind. Her braid whipped around her face like a flaming rope as her muscles flexed and twisted in perfect synchronicity with the blade she wielded.

Shaking his head at his foolishness, Erik sat in his chair before the fire.

There was not the slightest chance that she knew how to fence.

But maybe he could teach her.

Another tendril of thought began to take shape until it became...

Adrian was sitting on the couch, staring contemplatively into the lake. Instead of her usual high-necked dress, she wore a pair of black breeches and a billowy white blouse. She looked up at the sound of Erik's footsteps, and smiled.

They walked together down one of the back passages, and on reaching a spacious but bare room, they began to spar. She was wonderfully graceful, and obviously very happy with him.

With these last pleasant thoughts, Erik let his head nod forward. He was soon fast asleep.

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**I am contemplating a rewrite of Chapter three. Be ready my friends! Buhby now!**


	9. Chapter 9 blood and bone

**AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!**

**Am I the only person on this planet who thinks that Gerard Butler is ultra hot? Maybe he's no Hugh Jackman, but God in heaven, is he sexy or what? You know what, I don't care if not one soul agrees with me. I will continue to fantasize about his ultra hotness till my crooked little heart breaks! And all you non-believers can go burn in hell for all I care. DIE, NON BELIVERS, DIE!**

**Um, I didn't really mean that, I'm just upset that when I say something to the effect that Gerard Butler as the Phantom is my vision of male beauty, people look at me funny. That's love for you. I think that was one marshmallow too many.**

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"My friends, I would like to make an announcement!"

The dozen or so people in the room turned to Sir Charles's voice. It was Friday, and Adrian was at her wit's end. Slowly but surely, the little threads of sanity that had kept her from raving madness were bursting in twain, helped along by Sir Charles and Mademoiselle DeFleurette. Her fantasies of torturing both of them had become more defined over the week, and the prospect of a weekend break was all that kept her from acting on them. Today they were throwing a party for their closest friends and Adrian was supposed to walk about and offer drinks. Maddening.

"I know that you have heard of my exploits in Africa and India, and that I brought a little something back with me to prove it!"

There were murmurs and nods of assent throughout the room.

"Well, if you would follow me to the basement, I will astound you with a treat few have been fortunate to experience!"

Laughter rose up and people began to trickle out the door. Adrian hung back, hoping desperately that she could stay behind and maybe go to bed. She had a headache.

"Mlle. Cartier, you must join us!"

Sir Charles was alone in the room with her, and rather than risk him attempting something against her wishes, she went quickly past her predator to join the group descending the steps.

Sir Charles had been very difficult that week. He kept trying to brush up against her legs by "accident", but through quick reflexes and luck, Adrian managed to escape his grasp. One day, he would go for the gold, and Adrian wished to hold that day off as long as possible.

They had reached the door of the basement now, and below Adrian heard puzzling sounds. There was a light scratching sound, then a rumble, and then a scream. But that scream wasn't human at all.

The ladies of the party jumped in fright, and clutched their escort's arms, laughing nervously. The escorts didn't look too happy either.

Sir Charles fairly shook off Mlle. DeFleurette to produce a ring of keys that unlocked the basement door.

The party descended into the darkness, led by an oil lamp held by Sir Charles. They came to a large object covered by a tarp. The noises came from there, and the ladies backed away as the unearthly cacophony rose in volume.

Sir Charles gave a flourish with his hand like a circus ringleader.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the terror of the East, the king of the jungles, Lucifer!"

The tarp was whipped off revealing a black cat, beautiful and muscular under its glistening fur. It was almost invisible against the black bars of the cage, but its sparkling green eyes shone from its angular face. The light that emanated from the panther's pupils spoke of long nights of freedom under the full, ivory moon, of the thrill of the hunt in the warm green nights under the canopy of the trees, and of the rage any animal feels when taken from its home and caged.

Adrian's heart instantly went out to the magnificent creature as it paced its filthy cage. _We're alike, you and I_, she thought.

"I caught the brute somewhere in India" Sir Charles said breezily, and Adrian felt her hatred towards the man mount. _How dare he, a mere mortal man, attempt to cage this god of the forest._

"I named him Lucifer for his beastly temperament. He nearly tore the men watching him to shreds."

The people at the party said that it was indeed wonderful, and what brave chap he was, and what on earth would he do with a panther?

"Oh, I'll give him to the London zoo eventually, but the manager and I are thinking about using him for the new production of Margarita…"

Adrian lost the thread of the conversation. Why on earth would you need a panther for Margarita? Aida she would understand, since the Egyptians worshipped cats, but Margarita? The idea was absurd.

Her attention turned back to the panther. What beauty, what grace, what majestic sadness. She was lost in his eyes like a sailor at sea. Adrian drifted nearer and nearer to the cage, till she was almost touching the bars. The panther continued to stare back.

Adrian's concentration was broken by laughter. Obviously Sir Charles had just told a funny joke, and his guests were enjoying it. It would be wise to step away from the cage and so avoid attention.

"Mlle. DeFleurette," The diva turned toward her.

"Yes, what is it?" The silly woman was annoyed by something, and Adrian had a feeling she knew what it was. Sir Charles had been blatantly staring at Adrian for the entire night.

"It is very late. Would I be permitted to be excused?"

"Oh, yes! You may." The departure of the maid was obviously welcome.

On the way to her room, Adrian thought of nothing but the panther. His eyes were forever printed in her thoughts. They were still in her mind when she opened the door to her room.

The second she stepped in, her head began to pound horribly. Her headaches were more frequent now than ever. What she really needed was a bath.

The water that came from the faucet was orange with rust, but by some miracle, very hot. After running for a bit, the orange washed away down the drain and the tub filled with clear, hot water. Adrian stripped and lowered her self into the bath with a contented sigh. A hot bath was just the thing for a headache. The steam made her relax into a drowsy, comatose state, and the pounding behind her eyes stopped.

After a bit, Adrian pulled soap and a washcloth off the side of the tub, and began to run them over her arms.

The warmth made her feel as if her skin was dropping off her body as easily as a snake's, and the sensation was wonderful. It was all dropping away…every scar that marred her flesh, every burn that ate away at her skin, every cut in the muscle of her arm, every trace of blood…

Her eyes snapped open. Every trace of blood. Another night, much like this, cold, snowy, wet came to her mind. She was sitting in another tub, in another bathroom much finer than the one she occupied now, cleaning gore from beneath her fingernails and the grooves of her skin. Someone else's blood had covered her hands that night, and had soaked her dress and hair a deep red. The coppery smell of gore had filled her lungs till she was weak with the stench of it. The bathwater had been red…

Adrian shook her head, as if to deny any such thing had happened. _But it did happen, and it was all your fault…_

Adrian quickly leapt from the tub and dried herself, dressing in a frenzy. Her headache had come back with a vengeance.

A wild animal they had said. How could a man gouge out someone's throat? And it was a wild animal that was responsible for the string of brutal deaths all that year. Every single one had the same sort of marks; long tears down the throat like claw marks. An escaped circus animal, probably.

But they were wrong. She had done it. Isobel had orchestrated it, but Adrian had killed those people.

It hurt to move now. Her scars were aching again and restricting her movement. She would just have to sleep in her clothes. Besides, everything would be better in the morning. Memories are like sand; they wash away with time.

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**Wishing you would somehow review again…wishing you would somehow write…Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed, the reviews would appear…**

**Luv you duckies!**


	10. Chapter 10 Murderer

**I want to take a big ol' bite out of an Eriksicle. Mmmmmm……sexy sweet.**

**Reviewers, how do I love thee, let me count the ways…wait, there's too many…but I'll get around to counting them eventually! Because I love you, I have enabled anonymous reviews! Mi amore, bambinos!**

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If it had been in his nature, Erik would have skipped down his passageways signing, "For bonny sweet Jules is all my joy!" Erik had a reason to be happy with Jules. The packet of paper under Erik's arm was satisfyingly heavy, and contained everything he could ever want to know about Doctor DuBoise.

Sitting in his chair with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and the papers in his lap, Erik settled himself to do some hopefully informative reading.

Doctor Henri DuBoise was born in Nice, and moved to Marsailles to begin a medical career. He was known for his charming and genial demeanor, and was trusted by all of his patients. At the zenith of his career, he suddenly began to stay in his house much more often to pursue his research of the human anatomy. There were no reports about what exactly he was doing, but whatever it was must have been deeply secret, because the curtains were closed at all times. After about sixteen years of this, the doctor took on an apprentice, a certain Louis Tremaine. The boy was about twenty, and reportedly quite good looking.

For a year, both the doctor and the boy disappeared inside the doctor's mansion, the lights in the windows the only testament to their presence. Until one day, the lights stopped coming on. For almost a week, the house stood silent and dark. Then, a horrible sickly sweet stench rose from the grounds, and the town decided to investigate.

When they knocked down the door and stepped into the hallway, the searchers were met with a grisly sight. There, on the bloodstained floor, were the bodies of the doctor and his apprentice. But it was hard to tell who was who at first, because the bodies were so horribly disfigured.

The doctor's arm ears, eyes and nose were wrenched out of his body and strewn across the floor, and his throat was gouged out. The boy's jaw was torn off, leaving a bloody, gaping hole where the rest of his face had been.

When the house was searched, no evidence was found of whom could have done such a thing, and so the attack was attributed to a wild animal.

Graphic pictures accompanied the writings, and the sight was enough to turn Erik's stomach, if only a little.

That was the end of Jules's written notes.

What followed was a series of newspaper articles detailing the continuation of attacks from the vicious animal that killed the doctor and his apprentice.

Erik felt a strange sinking sensation. He had a feeling that he knew exactly who was responsible for the murders. It all fit together. The book by the doctor, Adrian's strange, cold demeanor, the murders…

Adrian was the killer.

Erik's thoughts were racing. _No, I need proof. Solid proof. But how to get it?_

Erik's jaw tightened slightly. To confirm his suspicions, or ease his thoughts, he would have to invade Mlle. Cartier's privacy in a way he had not really wanted to.

The hallways Erik walked down seemed to echo with the beat of his heart, and the words of the newspaper articles ran in a panicked mantra through his head. _Killer…brutally mauled…no traces of the killer…carnage beyond imagination…_

He had reached Adrian's mirror. Feeling a little sick to his stomach, he stood before the glass and waited. He did not have to wait long. Adrian unlocked her door and entered with a sigh. She seemed very troubled about something, and kept rubbing he temples. She unwound her hair from its coil and massaged her scalp to relieve the tension built up from her tight hairstyle.

Erik held his breath. Just one short look was all he needed. But it pained him to invade her privacy like that. In all the days after he had first looked at her, the temptation to watch her dressing had been hard to resist, but he had managed, only because he respected her enough to honor he taciturn wish for privacy. He still respected her, but he could not rest at ease until he knew…

She was unbuttoning her collar, her hands capably unfastening each one without the customary fumble. Her hands parted the fabric and peeled the dress off, leaving her in her shift.

Erik turned away resolutely, and began to march back down the hallways. Her body was beautiful in form, and graceful, but was marred by terrible scars, too precise and neat to be accidental. Surgical scars, made with a doctor's scalpel. They wound up her arms a little above the wrist, climbed around her neck like vines, and encircled her legs like so many pale spiders. Every scar was pearly white ringed with pink or red, at least, every scar he had seen. Large, dark shapes were slightly visible through her shift, suggesting something more severe on her torso. She was the killer.

It made perfect sense. To further his research, the doctor had followed the ressurectionist path and taken on a human subject. Except this one wasn't dead. She had no right to be alive, but somehow, Adrian was, and after years of torture, had taken vengeance on her captors, the boy and the doctor.

After committing the grisly murders, Adrian escaped, and for reasons unknown, had killed five others. Those were the tiny wooden figures. She had probably made them herself out of remorse for her actions. But then, where did Isobel come in?

Erik decided that he would ponder that question later. Larger ones demanded his attention. Was she sane? Probably not. No one could endure such severe torture and come out untouched mentally. If she was insane, did he still want to pursue her?

Erik stopped dead in his tracks. Wait, since when had he decided to pursue her? He loved Christine, even if she had murdered him in cold blood. Could he ever possibly love another woman as much?

He had reached his home. His chair called to him, and his legs responded in kind. Erik sat down, and sliding his hand up his mask, slipped the thing off.

They were both scarred. They were both murderers. They were both insane. They both treasured their solitude at times. But the need to feel human skin, warm and alive under his hands, poisoned his solitude and turned it into loneliness. Was it the same for her? Did she feel the same empty feeling in her core when lovers passed hand in hand? Did she wish for a weapon when she saw a stolen kiss between them?

People don't value one another enough. They fight and quibble and break away from one another. A single word is enough to turn what might have been happiness into bitter anger. If they knew the pain of loneliness, they would rush at each other with open arms, and say, "I'm sorry. We won't ever fight again." And then maybe the world would be a better place. Mothers would not shun their children, Fathers would be proud of all their offspring. Brothers and sisters would walk together hand in hand.

_But that's not how the world works._ Thought Erik angrily.

Erik glanced about his home. He was self-sufficient. He needed no one. What he needed was for someone to need him. He needed someone to depend on him, to curl up in his arms and bury their face in his chest to shut out he world. In a way, he felt that maybe Adrian needed someone. If not a lover, maybe just a friend.

_Just a friend. Maybe she will never love me, but perhaps I can be her friend._

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**Um, I'm ver self conscious about his chapter, so I need reviews especially. I've counted the ways I love my reviewers, and I think it's somewhere around a million. Hope you enjoy! P.S.: Accents, be they French, Canadian, German, Irish, English or Scottish, are awesomely cool! **


	11. Chapter 11

**IAll I can say is that my life is pretty plain: I like watching the puddles gather rain…**

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For the years Adrian was held captive, she had never been happy. But as time passed, the sharp terror she used to feel at the touch of metal on her skin turned into dull misery at every waking moment. Some mornings, it hurt to breathe, some it hurt to walk, and some it hurt just to think. But it always hurt.

All life that should have made her childhood happy even in the face of terror was slowly washed away, till all that remained was bitter longing for affection.

She remembered one warm spring morning, when she had asked Isobel if she loved her. Isobel had laughed at her, making the answer as clear as day, and told her to get back to learning. Isobel always had her learn. From the age of six, Adrian had had books instead of toys, facts and figures instead of child's fantasies and logical despair in the place of hope. Where love should have kissed her face and made it rosy and full with , hatred carved icy beauty


	12. Chapter 12 Music

**Why do people like making Erik a weak, sniveling baby? He is strong, man! Sorry for the wait. Luv and such…**

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"What a lovely day, Mlle. Cartier! Don't you agree?"

Adrian nodded briefly, tieing her mistress's corset with the notion that maybe if it was too tight, the woman would die of suffocation.

The morning was cloudy and gray. Not at all what most would consider beautiful. The birds had all gone south, and the only sound outside was the wind and rain. But still, it was easier to agree than to say something that would draw them into a conversation. Adrian didn't know what possessed Mlle. DeFleaurette to talk to her maid. The hatred that radiated from the diva's eyes was almost palpable when they were alone.

"Mlle. Cartier, please open the window and see if it is raining harder!"

Adrian padded across the carpet (a garish shade of fuchsia) and to the large window in the corner of the room. That window was the only part of Mlle. DeFleaurette's apartments that Adrian liked at all. The simple design of the white wooden framework was a comfort to the eye after all that pink.

Leaning out of the window, Adrian looked at the city. From this angle, the buildings looked dingy and forsaken. Still, the sky was, in its own way, beautiful. Almost silver with the early sun peeping through it. And the air was clean smelling as it usually is before a storm. The sight somehow lulled Adrian into a state of calm lethargy. She was so deep in thought; she did not have time to react when a pair of hands pushed her out of the window.

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She was here. He had her in his home, under his roof, in his room. She was here. Her golden hair was spread around her head like a halo, and her pale skin contrasted sharply with the red satin bedding. Somehow, this room welcomed her and made her a part of it. She belonged here.

He sat down in a chair next to the bed. Asleep, Adrian looked much more fragile. Her face was calm and still. The only sign of life was the rise and fall of her chest. Otherwise, she could have been dead. She had almost died that morning.

It was foggy that day, the wet cold clinging to his cloak like death. The pavement was slick with rain from the night previous, and another storm was imminent.

A sudden chill not related to the weather had run up his spine, and on instinct, he looked up. What he saw stopped his heart.

There, clinging to the wet stonework of the Opera Populaire, was Adrian. The wind had picked up and she was plastered to the wall, her dark dress sticking to the wet stone. Her beautiful golden hair was soaked to a dull brown, and her pale face shone from beneath it.

Not wasting a moment to wonder how in God's name she had gotten herself into such a mess, Erik ran into one of his passageways as fast as a bat out of hell. It would be suicide to attempt climbing the entire height of the Opera House in the rain and then climb back down with hr in his arms. Physically fit beyond the scope of human ability or not, it would be impossible. Instead, he would go up to the floor nearest to Adrian's perch, climb out of one of the windows there, climb over to where Adrian hung and carry her back to the window. The plan was still suicidal, but no longer impossible.

_Hurryhurryhurry. Fasterfasterfaster._

The thought that he might be to late made Erik's head spin, and quickened his feet to an almost inhuman pace. A vision of Adrian, falling through the air like a wingless angel was imprinted in his brain, and his heart skipped a beat every time she hit the ground. _He could not let her die._

Erik reached the desired floor, and proceeded to look for an unoccupied room. He found one, and dexterously picking the lock, made his way inside and towards the window..

Throwing off his cloak and jacket, Erik opened the window. It was dark outside, and the storm was in full swing. The freezing rain had turned to sleet.

_Wonderful. Just what I need to make a nearly impossible task even harder._

Trying desperately not to think of cold fingers and slippery handholds, Erik made his way across the wall. By some miracle, Adrian still clung to a carving in the stone, her eyes closed, her knuckles white from the strain. Her ankle was bent in a way that suggested it was broken, and her face was white and pinched with pain.

_Hold on Adrian, please hold on._

Erik paused to regain a bit of his strength. The cold was making it hard to keep going, and he sorely missed his warm cloak, but he could not give up. She was but inches away.

Finally, after what might have been seconds but seemed like hours, he reached her.

Leaning toward her, he yelled through the storm, "Adrian, wake up."

No movement.

"Wake up, damn you!"

She did not open her eyes, but gave a groan that signified she was listening.

"Adrian, listen to me, I'm going to take you out of here, but I can only do that if you help."

Her eyelids fluttered, and she nodded slightly.

"You have to put your arms around my neck and hold on. Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, she reached out a hand, keeping the other locked in her handhold. Erik leaned as close as his position would permit, and she threw an arm around his neck. Soon, the other arm joined it, and Erik had her (relatively)safe in his arms.

The climb back was rather nerve wracking, since Adrian was almost unconscious and likely to slip off, but they both made it back to the window. There, Erik finally got a good look at her, and he did not like what he saw.

Her pale face had two spots of unnatural color high on her cheeks and her brow was feverish. Each breath was quick, painful and shallow, with an unhealthy rattle to it. Her ribs felt bruised and her ankle was broken. Apart from her brow, she was horribly cold, and she shivered uncontrollably.

Erik had briefly considered taking her back to her room, but the medical tools he needed to heal her were below in his home. She was easy to carry; much easier than Christine. She was much too thin, as if she had been starving herself.

When they reached his home, she was murmuring in her comatose state, her brow furrowed, her eyes darting spasmodically under her lids. All symptoms pointed to a fever, and he had acted quickly to prevent anything worse. Now, she was swathed in blankets, her foot propped on a pillow, bandages encircling her ribs. The fireplace crackled and hissed in its effort to keep the room warm.

Looking at his guest, Erik's face softened slightly. She looked much younger asleep, almost like Sleeping Beauty, waiting calmly for her prince to come, and bestow a magic kiss to awaken her. Her lips were chapped, cracked and bleeding, but full, and slightly parted. Erik leaned toward her ever so slightly…

He quickly banished the thought, and the feelings that accompanied it. No kiss would wake her, and he far from a prince in shining armor. She wasn't even awake ( he had given her a dose of laudanum earlier when she had thrashing in her sleep), and a kiss was not his to take without her express permission.

Looking at her hands now, Erik had no trouble seeing that she was perfectly capable of ripping out someone's throat. Her long fingers were flexible, and held the blankets in a death grip that exuded power as clearly as if she clenched at human flesh. The thought brought a chill to the warm room.

_We are certainly a pair, Mlle. Cartier. An ex-murderer and a serial killer. France's Jack and Jill the Rippers._

He turned his attention back to her face. Such a beautiful face, really. As serene as a cat's, and twice as fair.

Just like Ayesha. Ayesha, his most loyal companion. The only woman to willingly come toward him and beg for his attentions. He had loved her as much as one could love a cat. She was his surrogate daughter, the child he never had. Love could be found in the oddest places. Sasha too, had loved him from birth, and had cared for him better than a mother.

But now they were both gone. One in death, the other in escape, without a trace. That night he had fled, he had abandoned Ayesha, and she had been gone on his return. He had mourned her loss like a father would his favorite child. Another unforgivable crime to add to his generous supply, his favorite lady, lost through neglect.

Adrian was all he had left to hang his hopes on. If she had died that night, he would have to die with her. She was his future. Befriending her was as important to him as music had once been. She was the light at the end of the tunnel.

Music had once accepted him into its sweet embrace; music was a living thing with its own passions, a master who only accepted a chosen few to rise above greatness and into a place apart from reality. He had always turned to music in times of need. When he was lonely, music kept him company. When he was lost in the depths of misery, music had wrapped an arm around him, lifted his chin and helped him go on. It took everything and gave everything; there was nothing that music could not express, could not soothe, and could not heal.

She would be his new music.

Slowly, Erik stood from his chair.

She would be his new music.

The walk to the piano was longer than he remembered. In days past, he would find himself in the chair before his instrument and not remember how he had gotten there. But now, every step was labored, and imprinted itself into his mind like a blow to the face.

Sitting before the keys now coated with dust, Erik closed his eyes.

_God, if you exist at all, grant me this. Just once. Please. _

Just this once.

The notes came almost unbidden to his mind. A familiar melody, his tribute to the greatest art ever in existence.

His fingers found the keys without effort, and pressed them.

A resounding, yet quiet chord, followed by three notes, crystalline and delicate.

Nighttime sharpens,

Heightens each sensation.

Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination.

Silently the senses

Abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write.

For I compose the music of the night.

He stopped, moved beyond the capacity of thought.

She had given him this.

She had given him this gift he thought was lost forever, this gift that he had cherished above all things, his first love.

Feverishly, he continued the song, letting his memory supply the notes, letting his voice supply the words.

He was whole again, and she was his angel of music.

For the first time since he had spotted her, Erik knew; he loved Adrian Cartier.

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Red, swirling fog was deadening every sound and making it hard to see. It clouded the senses and fogged the brain. A heated, heavy pulse like a heartbeat beat a tattoo into the back of Adrian's head. And it was warm; far too warm to even think. Confusion pervaded the air like a noxious perfume. Madness was pulling Adrian apart, and the pain was so much that she gave a deep groan from the pit of her throat.

Too hot to think, too hot to breathe, too hot to live.

Where was she? Who was she?

And then, the music began.

A chord, followed by three notes, delicate and soft. Then came the voice. It was all she could do not to scream.

So beautiful, and yet so great and terrible, like a tempest swirling in the very depths of the sea. It called to her, with words simple, but sweeping and grand in their simplicity.

Nighttime sharpens,

Heightens each sensation.

Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination.

Silently the senses

Abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write.

For I compose the music of the night.

She had never feared something so much. Why would it not stop? And yet if it ever stopped, she would die of grief.

Adrian opened her eyes.

She still could see nothing, but the music called her, and disobeying it would mean suicide. Fighting back the roaring in he ears, Adrian sat up, and moved her feet to find the floor.

Her ankle and ribcage hurt terribly, but the music demanded that she ignore it, and focus herself onto its subtle crescendos and simple base melody.

Adrian found the floor, and fell to her knees immediately upon standing up. The effort was too much, but that voice…

Gritting her teeth, Adrian pulled her self into a crawling position.

Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor.

Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender.

Hearing is believing, music is deceiving.

Hard as lightening, soft as candlelight.

Dare you trust the music of the night?

She was lost within it. Painfully, she dragged herself along the floor, barely noticing where she was, her eyes on the darkness that led towards the sound.

Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth,

And the truth isn't what you want to see.

In the dark it is easy to pretend

That the truth is what it ought to be.

Crawling desperately now, Adrian fixed the words n her mind, determined not to forget them. Whoever had written those words had looked into her and seen the little girl crying in the dark, in fear of the truth. She valued nighttime for that reason. It soothed and forgave, and let her build a secret castle of dreams and comforting lies where no one could find her.

Softly, deftly music shall caress you.

Hear it, feel it secretly posses you.

Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind

In this darkness, which you know, you cannot fight:

The darkness of the music of the night.

She was in a dark hallway now, her hands pressed to a cold stone floor. The music had beaten back her throbbing hell, and now the cool of the dark was loosening the hysteria that had once been holding her in its clutches. She was so much closer now, close enough to taste it.

Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange new world,

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.

Close your eyes, and let music set you free…

She had reached its source, a room lit by candles. Pain meant nothing now, but she had to stop at the doorway to catch her breath. Her defences gone, she stood naked and alone as the music forced its way into her veins. The song had grown in volume till it filled her thoughts with the sound.

Only then, can you belong to me.

She closed her eyes. She did belong to it, body and soul, and to rip her from it would break her into a million little pieces.

Floating, falling sweet intoxication.

Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation.

Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in

To the power of the music that I write:

The power of the music of the night.

As if pulled by an invisible string, Adrian stood, not feeling the throbbing in her foot and chest. She leaned against the doorframe, letting the music wash over her like an ocean wave, deep and blue.

Suddenly, she looked up, and saw the man sitting at the piano, beating furiously at the keys, crashing chords radiating from him like supernatural power surges.

The man looked up, his face reflected in a mirror on the piano top. The only thing she could see was his intensely green eyes, staring at her with emotion that frightened her, but would not let her look away.

You alone can make my song take flight;

Help me make the music of the

Night…

The last note was soft as the beginning with none of its quiet majesty. It was painful, and deeply sad. For the first time in years, Adrian felt a burning sensation in her throat and eyes; she wanted to weep like a child and never stop, and she wanted the singer to hold her, and tell her it would be fine, because that voice could make her believe anything.

He was everything. And then the world went black.

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**I wrote this while I listened to Michael Crawford singing the song, and all the emotions Adrian attatched to it are my own.**


	13. Chapter 13 Awakening

**Thank you to my new reviewers! You people are so darn cool!**

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Deborah DeFleurette looked out of her window to witness her rival's defeat, giggling ecstatically. What a run of luck! She had thought that poison would be the only way to dispose of Adrian Cartier, but poison was messy, and not always fatal. Besides, the lady's maid never seemed to eat, so how would she slip the poison to her? Then, that morning, Mlle. Cartier had leaned out the window, making herself a perfect target to push out. Who would suspect the diva of murder? They would probably assume that the girl had committed suicide, and add one more unhallowed grave to the ground.

Suddenly, the thought of broken bones poking through twisted flesh became extremely unappealing, and Deborah turned away from the window.

Deborah hated Adrian Cartier. She hated her thin, lithe form, her glossy golden hair, her high cheekbones, but most of all, she hated the woman's eyes. One blue, the other green. It just wasn't natural! Those eyes brought back memories…horrible memories. It was as if her maid knew about Janette and the little bird, about the real reason Marie left school, about Sister Maria and the three dead rats. They made her feel guilty. Just like her Uncle.

Uncle Gaston DeFleurette was a parson. He was a shrewd man, who sent his sister's only child to a convent school. Since he was a good friend with the Mother Superior, Father DeFleurette knew all of his niece's doings. Every time little Deborah came home for the holidays, he would accost her for her actions, and then he would sit back in his chair and stare at her, his thick, white, bushy eyebrows set into a deep frown. No matter how many times she tried to look repentant, flutter her long lashes and stick out her lower lip, he kept staring at her, until the little pangs of regret that came from being caught grew to true agony, and she began to cry. At that point, her uncle would send her away and let nurse take care of her. Nurse was much kinder, and petted the "little angel", gave her sweets and toys, and told her wonderful stories. That was how she had come to singing. At night, nurse would pick out a tune on the toy piano next to the window, and Deborah would belt out the song. She learned Italian that way, as well as English and Latin. But as much as she learned, and as much as she was petted and adored, Deborah remained a spoiled little brat. She never grew up. She refused to grow up, and no one could ever make her!

When she turned twenty-two, and her tantrums had turned to devilish plots of revenge, her uncle came into her room in a boiling rage. Taking her by the hair, he had pulled her into his study.

Ink, paper, pens and books littered the floors, and the paintings on the walls were slashed and stained. But worst of all, the white marble bust of Aunt Antonia (long dead) lay smashed on the floor in a million pieces.

"You think you could get away with this, you little demon? You think you're clever? Bah! You're just like your mother, a spoiled brat who made those who crossed her suffer! She should have named you Delilah! Such a sweet face, but such a devilish mind! If you were my daughter, I would flay you within an inch of your life!"

The seething tirade went on, until Deborah was truly frightened that her uncle would do some act of violence. That morning, he had taken away her allowance when he had received word that she had spent the entire thing on dresses and makeup. Furious, she had demolished his study in a tantrum. Never had she dreamed that her misbehavior would invoke such rage. Her uncle was purple in the face, nearly foaming at the mouth.

Finally, the man of God seemed to calm himself.

"Deborah, you have gotten out of my hands. You commit misdeeds with no regard for any but yourself. You are selfish, cruel, vicious, and from what I've heard from Mother Superior, a lady of little virtue."

The miscreant blushed with annoyance. How had the interfering old hen found out about Luke?

"Since your mother's death and your father's disappearance, I have tried to treat you like my own. It seems as if I have failed. I wish to God that things could have been different, but I see that my error goes beyond an old man's folly. I have no choice but to disinherit you."

Deborah went to her knees and begged very prettily. She wept and moaned and pleaded and promised in an attempt to change his mind. Where would she go? How would she live? What would she do? But the old man was immovable, and pulled her roughly to her feet.

"I won't have this, you hear me? I have an acquaintance by the name of M. Andre. He owns the Opera Populaire. I know you can sing, so I can procure a position as diva for you. I will give you money enough to live, but you are no relative of mine, so do not hound me for more before I die. By then, I hope you will be in a position to marry, although I pity the poor fellow, whoever he will be. My property will become yours upon the date of my death. Now leave an old man in peace."

That day, she had moved from her uncle's house. The next, she had met Sir Charles in the Fleur de Belle; a small inn outside of Paris. He was tall, handsome and clever (at least to her eyes), and swept her off her feet in a way that Luke never could. Their affair had lasted longer than the days she spent in the inn, and she had thought he was the man she would marry. At least till Mlle. Cartier came along.

It had taken her a while to realize that her lover's attentions were elsewhere, but once she did, it was plain as day. No one, especially this vampire of a girl, would ever get the better of her. And now she was dead, and she would never have to worry about her again!

With a smile on her face, Mlle. DeFleurette closed the window, and set about powdering her nose, unaware that Adrian Cartier had never reached the ground.

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Erik sat in his winged armchair before the roaring fire of his room. It had been two days and Adrian hadn't even awakened. She slept as deep as if in death, with only the occasional murmur to indicate life.

Except for the day before. He had been playing his music, blind to the world around him, when suddenly, he had looked up on impulse to stare her reflection in the face. Unconsciously, he had directed all of his hopelessness, all of his melancholic agony into her vibrant, jewel-like eyes. He had seen something there, something desperate and needy.

Her mask had fallen away, leaving her defenseless. He had stripped her of the layers of ice that kept her away from all people. A child on her knees in the snow, staring into fairy lights, and knowing the cold would reach her before she met the light. His music had melted her armor into nothing, and she was naked before him, all flaws exposed.

After the first few bars of his song, Erik had lost track of himself, lost track of time. He was back to older times, when his only concern was the newest architectural puzzle and the music he played. In those days, he had needed neither sleep nor food nor drink; music was all this and multitudes more.

He had become his former self; passionate, genius and (he had to admit) slightly egotistical. He had owed nothing to anyone then, and loneliness was but a ripple in the comprehensive ocean of his conscience. He was strong, alone, and unafraid. He had caressed his instruments like a rapturous lover, let them speak to him, and he gave them voice. And then, Christine had come. The most beautiful instrument of all. Kind, gentle and tolerant. But only to those she pitied. And she had pitied him for a time. But then, pity turned to fear, and fear to hatred. But after that, she was gone, and he would never know her last emotion for her angel of music.

He would not tolerate pity. Pity was for those who could not help themselves. He was stronger than that. If anything, her pity had angered him, protected him from her piteous cries and pleading. But she had done the unthinkable. She had pulled his hideous face towards her own and kissed him. Perhaps he would never know what had been running through her mind, but it had shriveled him. He was a corpse, dried to human leather by the elements.

When his song was done, she had collapsed. The physical strain of simply walking from her room to the source of his music had sapped her strength. He had seen the light go out of her eyes like a candle extinguished, like a toy whose internal mechanisms had finally run down, cogs and gears slowing to a stop.

The magic that had coursed through him and transferred itself into his music was put away, but only for a time. It was carefully shelved and stowed away till it was time to unfurl again in bright candlelight.

Filled with concern, he had hoisted Adrian up into his arms and carried her back to bed. Her body was limp like some giant rag doll. It stood to reason; no one could wake early from a laudanum-induced sleep without collapsing quickly afterward. Her head lolled and her arms dangled like a puppet's.

Putting her down gently and tucking her in, Erik had whispered comforting things to her, and she had responded with a light groan. Once again, his voice had penetrated through the thick fog surrounding her brain, and stirred her cognitive functions into movement.

A little voice in Erik's mind whispered, _Cheater, _and Erik knew the voice was right. He wanted a friend and companion, not a zombie who followed his voice. She would attach herself to him because she chose to, not because she was hypnotized into it. Such a friendship would be more satisfying. Jules was practically his slave, but Nadir was independent of Erik's will, and it was Nadir who was closest to being his friend.

Did Adrian even have friends? He had noticed that though she talked and spent time with Madame Bufont and Monsieur Wagner, she was still apart. When she passed groups of young ballerinas or chorus girls, they sometimes eyed her with interest, but she did not respond. Isobel was the only person he had ever heard her converse freely with, but that seemed only because of the absolute power the faceless queen held over her. In a way, she was lonelier than him. He had known friendship, but it seemed alien to her.

_When she awakes_, Erik resolved, _I must keep emotion from my voice. She must love me for my mind, not my voice._

For she would love him. He would be her dearest friend. It was not a conceited presumption, but a future reality. There was much they shared, and much they might share. He would make her smile. He would make her laugh. He would make her happy.

A sudden noise snared his attention. A thump.

Was she getting out of bed again?

Now soft, padding footsteps.

Adrian appeared at the door to his room. Her eyes were focused on the ground before her, and circles surrounded them. How tired she looked! She might have just crawled out of the grave.

The nightgown he had dressed her in was cut low enough that the scars on her chest peeked out like ivory vines. The long sleeves brushed her knuckles and the skirt reached down to the floor, covering her feet.

Staggering forward, Adrian steadied herself on a bookcase and looked up.

For all the weariness in her movements, her eyes still glittered with ice. Erik felt as if he looked upon an Amazon trapped in a mortal body, who felt frustrated that it would not do as she asked.

Ever the gentleman, Erik decided it was time to intervene. Standing, he approached his guest and offered her his hand. She did not seem to relish the idea of coming into physical contact, but decided that a small encroachment of her personal space would be better than if she fell down and forced him to carry her.

The trip back to the fireplace seemed long and labored, but they managed to make it to his chair, and she sank into it, letting her slight weight sink into the cushioned upholstery.

Erik took a smaller chair from the corner and set it next to, but not within close proximity of Adrian's seat.

She seemed to compose herself, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes for a moment.

"Monsieur."

Her voice was soft and heavy, like smoke.

"Please…what is wrong with me?"

Erik was pleased she had neither asked who he was or where they were. Maybe she guessed the answers, or maybe she suspected she would not get a satisfactory one from him.

"You had a…nasty fall. Your ribs are bruised, your ankle broken and you have been unconscious for the past three days or so."

She turned to stare at him, a brief flash of astonishment skidding across her eyes.

"Three days…"

Erik studied his companion curiously. She had turned away from him and stared blank-eyed into the fire. Why hadn't he noticed how stunningly beautiful her hair was? Of course he had admired its golden sheen, but here in the firelight it resembled liquid sun. Now it was out of its braid and around her shoulders, framing her entire body like an illuminating halo on a holy card. The effect was striking, and she somehow resembled a Roman goddess, golden and immortal.

Her fingertips rested lightly on her lips, a position he had seen her take whenever she was thinking. If someone watched her just in passing, they would never be able to comprehend the subtle signs of her moods. It was all in her hands. When she was tired, they hung limp at her sides and moved as if filled with lead. When angry, they trembled and flexed and sometimes clenched. When sad, she rested them in her lap or clasped them before her. This last behavior he had only seen once or twice.

The first time, she had been on her way back from work. A group of girls was passing, talking among themselves. The center of attention was one Anastasia, whose mother was the new ballet mistress. A capable woman, but not as good as Madame Giry, who had left the year before. The sparkling blonde was chattering about a boy.

"Oh, he's so handsome when he laughs, and he says that I'm funny, so he laughs all the time when we're together."

"What about when you're kissing?" Giggles.

"Oh, we do too much kissing to think about laughing or not!"

The others exploded in laughs of their own and continued down the hall.

And Adrian had stood there, looking after them, her face unreadable, but her hands spoke volumes.

Erik's reverie was broken by Adrian's voice.

"When will I be well?"

"I suppose within the next few days. When I see that you are well enough to walk about more freely, I shall return you to your room."

So far, he had kept his voice quite ordinary, barring the usual entrancing quality from it. Was it his imagination, or did she seem slightly disappointed?

"I suppose you are hungry?"

With that, she turned her head sharply, her eyes unexpectedly ravenous, and nodded. It was the first thing she had done that showed any energy.

"Wait here. Breakfast shall be ready shortly."

He turned his back on her and strode towards his kitchen. Unless he was mistaken, she needed the food desperately. Her ribs poked out from her skin and she had aquired an unhealthy pallor.

Erik returned to her with a tray laden with delicious food. There was bacon, sausage, fruit-filled crepes, an orange, a glass of water and a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Adrian's eyes betrayed nothing, but her hands gripped the chair as if it was about to propel her into the roof.

Erik set the tray on a small table and pulled it closer to her.

The second it reached her, she grabbed a fork and proceeded to eat at the speed of light. Sausage and bacon were gone within seconds, and the crepe was almost half finished when he said gently, " Calm down, child. I'm not about to take it from you."

In her own way, she seemed slightly abashed, and slowed to a civilized pace.

Why was she starving? She was certainly thin enough not to need it. Was her job getting in the way of her meals? Erik gave a mental frown, but kept his face impassive. Maybe after she knew him better, he would get her to eat more.

Finally, the meal was done.

"Monsieur, would you be so kind as to show me to my room?"

If she was ashamed to ask a complete stranger for help, she was too tired to care. Wordlessly, Erik offered a hand and she stood with its help.

When they had reached the door, she let go and barely whispered, "Thank you Monsieur, for your kindness." And then her eyes met his.

Erik had the odd sensation that she was filing through his thoughts, analyzing each one and then carefully putting it back. Her eyes were searching and puzzled. Briefly, they lingered upon his mask, but soon came back to his eyes. Then, so quickly he could have imagined it, fear shot across her eyes. Her brow furrowed momentarily, then straightened.

Abruptly, she turned and entered her room, closing the door with fierce finality.

Erik stood there astonished. Afraid? She was afraid? But of what? Did she suddenly recognize him as the phantom of the opera? Or was it something else?

Walking back to his chair, Erik sank into it with a deep sigh. If she was afraid of him, their relationship was over before it began. He knew very well that his personal aura was one of fear, and he had used that to his advantage in earlier years. But Adrian Cartier had never struck him as one easily frightened. But she was afraid…

_No! Don't think like that. Christine was afraid of you at first too, and you became close before the end. _

Erik glared into the fire. It was a temporary setback. That was all. Just an extra mile he would have to go to gain her trust.

Things would be better when she woke up. He would speak to her, take care of her, maybe even read to her to relieve the boredom of being bedridden.

This was one fight he would not lose.


	14. Chapter 14 Alone

**Does anyone here know about the new movie V for Vendetta? That story reminds me slightly of PotO, since there's a masked super genius in black who is smokin' hot. Just thought I'd ask.**

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That morning Adrian woke up feeling a little better, though far from her best. Her vision was slightly blurry, and her head felt wooly. The pain in her ribs and ankle had lessened dramatically, but her head was spinning.

It was very tempting to stay in that warm, soft, canopied bed. The black lace hung like a soft mist and made her drowsy. Her poor head cried out, "Don't get up! It's much too early. Let's sleep."

But ignoring the impulse to succumb once again to blissful slumber, Adrian pushed her way out of the canopy and stood.

It was only then that she discovered how very weak she was. Her knees buckled and she toppled over with a thump.

_Well, that was stupid._

Nevertheless, she stood again, this time leaning on a table for support.

Food. She wanted food. And lots of it. Food to fill the gaping hole that seemed to have appeared over night around her middle. Food to give her back the strength that was so necessary to independence. Glorious food. Wonderful food.

Adrian shook her head a bit to stop the spinning images of hot bacon sizzling over the fire, its tantalizing odor hanging in the air, the salty grease covering her fingertips begging to be licked off. Now was not the time to display weakness. Now was the time to find out where she was and why.

The room she stood in was very beautiful. Lush and vibrant, but still retaining an elegant grace. The bed she had occupied was the most impressive piece in the room. It was some sort of black metal, shaped like a long necked bird, its wings forming the sides. The bedding was blood red satin, velvet and silk, and the black canopy hung like some benevolent presence ready to wrap her in a warm embrace. A thick carpet dancing with exotic flowers cushioned her bare feet. Everything in the room was pleasing to the eyes, and to Adrian's relief, nothing was pink (or lavender scented for that matter).

There was something off about the room, and Adrian finally noticed; there were no windows. Candles held in black iron brackets on the white walls lighted the entire room.

_What sort of house had no windows?_

The unsettling question brought Adrian back to the present, and aroused her senses.

She was in a strange environment, not dressed in her own clothes, sapped of strength and she was standing there like an idiot gaping at the décor! What kind of suicidal fool was she? She had to get out now!

Gradually, her pulse and breathing slowed to normal and the icy presence that took over whenever she was afraid made her close her eyes and count to ten.

There was nothing to do but find her host.

The trip down the hallway was slow and painful. Every step simply showed her how weak she had become, how tired she was and how defenseless. Anyone could have walked up to her at that moment and tossed her over his shoulders like a bag of potatoes, and she would be powerless to stop them.

There was light at the end of the hallway, and she headed toward it. Where there was light, there was usually some sort of life. She would confront her host and…what would she do? Demand to be taken back to her room? Demand to know where she was? Demand to know who he was? At the present, demanding anything at all would be unwise. For all she knew, the person was a hulking eccentric living in his basement developing his muscle tone and waiting for someone either brash enough or stupid enough to demand something. It was best to start with something more polite and submissive.

The door was thick and made with some dark colored wood carved with fanciful designs. Someone had left it slightly ajar, and flickering light played upon the walls of the room.

_Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe he (she?) will be a weak little librarian who dislikes the light and…_

All such thoughts were dispelled. Hades himself sat before the fire in an armchair that reminded her of a throne. There was nothing human about him. He was too perfect for that. For is death not perfect? Perfect peace? Perfect slumber? Thick black hair tumbled over his ears, shining in the firelight. His skin was pale, as if he knew not the light of day. Black and white, with no color. He turned to her.

The two stared at one another, eyes never moving. Green sparkled and blue shone in balls of flame. And then it was gone. His eyes were only gemstones, dead and cold, and not the miniature stars she had thought them to be.

Adrian took another step. Why would her body not respond? It did not walk, it shuffled. She did not blink, she closed her eyes very slowly, and opened them again. And she could swear that her heart was beating about twelve times slower than it was supposed to. Suddenly, a hand sheathed in black leather appeared, offering support. If she had been in her usual state of alert defense, the hand would have received a cold shoulder.

A sinking sensation began to grow in her chest cavity. Why did she have to collapse now? If she didn't get to a chair soon, she would most definitely make a fool of herself by falling in a dead faint on the floor. Presumably, her host would not want to have her lying on his floor, so he would have to pick her up. Wordlessly, Adrian took the hand. Pride be damned. She was not about to force that sort of physical contact.

The chair was soft and warm. A fine piece of work, neither over- nor under-stuffed. The chair was a dark wine red and enveloped her like a parent welcoming a tired child to their lap.

Adrian closed her eyes. It hurt to think of parents. Parents that never welcomed her to their laps. Parents who never coddled her, showered her with affection. A father who hated her, and a mother…

"Monsieur…please, what is wrong with me?"

The words had come unexpectedly. A subconscious scream that manifested itself as a whisper to the outside world. _What is wrong with me? Why am I so weak? Why can't I talk? Why can I never talk? To anyone? _

"You had a…nasty fall. Your ribs are bruised, your ankle broken and you have been unconscious for the past three days or so."

"Three days…"

A nasty fall. When had she had a nasty fall? Snippets of memory began to arrange themselves into chronological order. That morning. The window. Silver clouds. A push. And then a jarring collision. Everything had hurt, and then nothing had. And then, the voice.

Adrian stopped her thoughts abruptly. Her host was eyeing her, as if waiting for her to speak. She would recall the voice another time.

"When will I be well?"

Once again, the man answered her question with a cold, steel voice made for command, not conversation.

"I suppose within the next few days. When I see that you are strong enough to walk about more freely, I shall return you to your room."

A few days. A few days usually meant three, but what was a few days to this prince of darkness? He was dressed like a prince. Every stitch of clothing was cut and fastened just so, and it was all as dark as the shadows he inhabited. The voice had sounded like a prince. It possessed command of her thoughts in an almost princely fashion. But this voice could not be her voice. It was too cold.

"I suppose you are hungry?"

Adrian snapped her head up. Food? This person would give her food? She would have food to fill the empty space in her middle and give her back the strength to be independent of any helping hands! She nodded.

"Wait here. Breakfast shall be ready shortly."

The man disappeared behind a crimson tapestry. Just like the one in her room. Maybe later she would look behind the tapestry to see what was behind the door.

A nagging sensation told her that she had seen this man before. Something in those eyes, in his mannerisms, in his cultured demeanor.

Wait! There was something paired with the voice! A face. No, not a face. A pair of eyes. Brilliant green eyes that flamed with despair, shrouded with cold anger. But for a single moment, the flaming ice had cracked, and she had seen something beneath. Something more precious than the most precious of gems. But then the smoke had swirled in from the edges of her vision and suffocated her senses.

The man was back. But not empty-handed. There was a tray loaded with food that he set before her on a small table.

So many delicious things to taste and smell!

Before she realized it, half the food was gone. All was cooked to perfection, and each bite simply whetted her appetite till she felt she would die if more food were not eaten.

" Calm down, child. I'm not about to take it from you."

Adrian paused and slowed to a more human pace, feeling abashed. The man had spoken to her as if she were a silly child who has just done something foolish. Well no wonder. She had been eating like an animal! Stuffing food and drink down her gullet like a starved wolf, afraid that if she did not eat quickly enough, a bigger, stronger wolf would take it from her.

Finally the meal was done. The man was watching her still, gemstone eyes fixed somewhere at her cheekbone. Why was he watching her like that? Suddenly, a sickening reality came into focus. She wasn't wearing her own clothes. A comfortable nightgown had replaced her usual dark dress. To have gotten her dressed like this, the man would have to have seen the scars…

"Monsieur, would you be so kind as to show me to my room?"

She would have to get back into solitude to sort out the tumult of emotions in her head. And although the meal had been exquisite, it did not have the strengthening power she had hoped for. She would need her host to help her back.

When they had reached the door, Adrian turned to the man. She must find out who he was. Was he the voice that had captured her so fully? Or had that simply been a dream?

A cold wave of horror slashed at her face. Blood. Gallons of blood coating her skin, soaking her hair, stinging her eyes, lining the inside of her mouth like a sick second skin.

She slammed the door in his face.

He was the man. He was the angel. He was the voice, the music, the safety. And she had murdered him simply by being pushed out of a window.

Her back to the door, Adrian slid to the floor, her hands clutching her shoulders in an attempt to protect herself. So blank. So empty.

All things she might have loved were destroyed, and she destroyed them herself.

Her breath was ragged and quick.

Dead, dead, it was all dead.

_I'm losing my mind, I'm losing my mind. _

She was shaking now.

Blood. And she had drunk it in like a vampire at the feed.

Her love was toxic, and even the slightest premonition of it would cause death.

"Mama…"

The most beautiful woman in the world. How lovely she had been. But the second Adrian was born, a feeble thing with stick limbs and bluish tinged skin that screamed, Mama was blank and empty. She had been tipped over and poured out, leaving an empty beautiful vase. No effort from her only daughter could arouse any affection. Mama had been silent and staring, sitting on her bed and seeing nothing, or walking alone at night on the sunless meadows, staring before herself and not returning till morning.

Mama had died inside because Adrian was born. Because Adrian, like all children, loved her mother from birth. And her love had broken so many lives. She must not let it happen again. She would love no one and nothing. All emotions were locked deep inside, leaving her alone.

All alone.

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"Good morning, my love!"

Charles kissed his lady's hand gallantly and then, grabbing her close, kissed the rest of her.

"Oh Charley! You're such a rouge!" Laughed the diva.

Now that Adrian was gone, Deborah had Sir Charles all to herself. He bought her things, took her out, and kissed her. Yes, everything was going according to plan! Without Mlle. Cartier to distract him, Charles was doing his part of gallant lover wonderfully! How glorious it was to be in love!

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**Love. Buy it, steal it or borrow it, but always have love. Never leave the house without it. Never forget it. Love is everything.**


	15. Chapter 15 Isobel

**I don't own any references I make to any book, movie or musical, or to the PotO book/movie/musical in this chapter, or any chapter, and this applies to the whole story, so back off FFdotnet police! I'm Scott free::begins to play bagpipes while doing a Scottish jig:**

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Isobel had not always been cruel. But of course, cruel was an understatement, just like beautiful and intelligent, when applied to Isobel.

Adrian remembered the first time she ever saw Isobel. She had been playing in the basement of her parent's house, making up lonely tableaux with broken second-hand dolls who usually ended up living happily ever after and leaving Adrian all by herself. She had been five then.

A footstep sounded on the stairway. Then another, and another. They weren't papa's, because these were too light. They weren't mama's, because mama never came down.

Suddenly, a girl dressed all in pink and jewels had appeared in the basement. She was the most beautiful girl Adrian had ever seen.

"Hello."

The girl's voice was beautiful too, and left Adrian speechless.

"Well, what's wrong? Are you a mute or something?"

Adrian swallowed.

"Hello"

The girl burst out laughing. The sound was so wonderful, Adrian had to smile.

"I'm Isobel. What's your name?"

"Adrian"

"Well, just don't sit there gaping like a fish! Give me a doll!"

Adrian and Isobel had played the whole day and far into the night. Isobel was funny, smart and above all, beautiful. She was so beautiful, Adrian forgot that her father was supposed to come down and feed her. She forgot the bruises on her arms. She forgot how cold it was to sleep in the basement. She forgot that mama was sick. Her entire life became the two dolls, and what they thought and said. Isobel was good at making them come alive, and soon, Adrian began to wonder if the two dolls weren't actually talking.

There was magic in Isobel. She sparkled, she danced, and she flew. Everything about her was color and light!

Finally, Isobel stood, brushing off her skirts.

"I must go, Adrian. But I will be back tomorrow."

How wonderful it was to have a friend!

Every day after that, Isobel came to the basement. The two played together for hours, creating stories and making up personalities. But something was wrong.

As time went on, Adrian became sapped of life when Isobel wasn't around. It was as if the girl was slowly leeching Adrian's energy while they spent time together, and took it away when they were apart. Every day, Adrian became paler and paler, every day, her eyes stopped glittering so much. Every day, her hair lost its golden luster. The only time she showed any life at all was when Isobel was around, and then she only murmured in assent to everything Isobel said. Otherwise, she was a listless corpse, barely getting up from her cot in the basement corner.

She became almost transparent, a phantom haunting the basement. Every action took triple the amount of energy it usually would. Every word was slurred, until she stopped bothering to talk. Her skin turned gray, her eyes lusterless, and her hair almost white.

And Isobel became more beautiful. Her skin shone, her eyes glittered, and her brown hair became more liquid and dark. She was always full of energy, and danced circles around Adrian.

Soon, Adrian simply sat in the middle of the basement floor, not moving from the spot, not touching the scraps her father set out for her for days on end. It was only when Isobel came that she moved at all, and then sluggishly. Isobel would greet her with a hug around the shoulders and a dazzling smile, and set about creating the latest game. But Adrian didn't care. Isobel was there, radiant and friendly, and that was enough.

Then one day, before Isobel came to play, it happened.

Adrian's father was a harassed looking man, who had been rather handsome in his day. But years of taking care of his beloved wife as she wasted away had leached the color from his hair, and created creases and lines across his brow. He came down the basement stairs in a hurry, nearly tripping on the way, and grabbed his daughter's wrist, pulling the child up the stairs. Adrian made not a sound, but allowed her father to drag her along at breakneck speed; she lacked the strength to walk.

Her father threw her into the arms of a maid, and said something hurriedly about "making it presentable".

The maid was very young and new to the strange household that harbored a madwoman. If she had been an older servant with more experience and ease with the employers, she might have said a few kind words to the little child who stayed so eerily silent under the soap and water. But as it was, she hurriedly scrubbed her charge down and shoved her into a faded pink dress before scooting her out into the hall.

Adrian's father pushed her down the hall into a dark room and closed the door after her. This was not completely unknown. Once in a while, Adrian's father would drag her up through the basement and present her to his wife for a few moments before shunting her back downstairs again. But this time was slightly different. Usually, her father stayed with her while her mother stared through her, unblinking, until papa decided that his wife was satisfied that her daughter was alive. Mama never knew that Adrian was kept locked in a basement away from warmth or food, all she knew was that the child seemed well cared for, and wasn't dead. Adrian squinted in an attempt to get used to the darkness.

Suddenly, a light was switched on. In the bed that dominated the room lay Adrian's mother, leaned up and over to the lamp she had just turned on. She looked so soft and pale that if Adrian had been a normal child familiar with fantasy, she might have likened her mother to a ghost. Her icy blue eyes ringed with circles and pale skin were several shades lighter than they should have been, and her golden hair fell in dead wisps over her forehead. The gaslight shone through her skin and hair, making them look transparent.

"Come here, so I can look at you."

The voice was as soft and pale as the rest of her, and faded away like mist. But Adrian came closer to the bed, to this woman who so little resembled her mental image of her beautiful mother, but held a delicate grace in the lines of her face that spoke her identity.

The woman reached out a pale tentative hand towards her daughter, and rested her fingertips on the child's cheekbone.

"Adie, what's wrong? You look so pale…"

A fine statement coming from a ghost of a woman. But her touch was not ghostly. Her cool hands held a frightened sort of love, and rested with soft pressure on Adrian's face, tracing the contours of her cheekbone, her jaw line. She shook uncontrollably at times, and then was still. Fits of trembling came and went through her thin arms, and sometimes her eyes would glaze over, and then return to focus.

"I've been such a terrible mother."

The woman burst into tears, weeping and clutching Adrian to her breast as if she were the last lifeline to the outside world.

"It's alright mama, it's alright!"

Poor Adrian was confused. Her first conversation with her mother, and the lady was crying. And not just crying. She was weeping as if her heart would break, her thin body wracked with sobs. Finally, the tears slowed to a trickle, and Adrian's mother held the child at a distance, as if to look her over.

Something seemed to catch her eye, behind her daughter, and held it fast. Fear, like some scorpion, stealthy, silent and deadly, stole its way into those pale blue eyes. It rooted, and grew like a black, shriveled weed, till it filled her face.

"Adrian"

It was Isobel. She leaned against the doorframe with a nonchalant attitude, gazing with disinterest at the pair.

"I'll wait downstairs till you're finished."

Then she flashed that melting smile at both of them, and clicked out of the room.

Adrian turned back to her mother. She was still staring at where Isobel had been in wide-eyed horror.

"Adrian, go shut the door."

Her voice was harsh and raspy, and Adrian obeyed, coming back to her mother's bedside.

Adrian's mother took her daughter's face in her hands again, searching it, her faded eyes now shining metallically. Pressing her lips gently against Adrian's forehead, the lady let go of her daughter, and watched her with a deep, hopeless kind of sadness.

"It will be all right, love. You'll see."

She bit her lip.

"You'll see."

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Rosalind gazed out her window, watching the rain pelt it and the mist enshroud the trees. The world was most beautiful when it was raining. It was white and silver, but softer than the colors of winter. There was something beautiful about rain, which words could not express. It was nature's music, meant to enchant. It fed the starved earth and unburdened the weary skies. The damp cold was like a mother's cool caress.

Throwing her cloak around her thin shoulders, Rosalind moved silently from her room, shivering.

The house was so big and empty. The one maid her husband had employed did a poor job at housekeeping, and what should have been a welcoming home was an empty tomb. Rosalind had hoped that a child would brighten the world, but the poor thing had been brought into existence by a madwoman. Rosalind knew she was mad. She knew that there were times when she would find herself in the middle of the forest and not remember how she got there. She knew that for the past five years, she had neglected her child upon whom she had hung such hopes. She knew very well that she was not at all well. But there was no way to remedy the situation. There was no hope.

A laudanum addict and a madwoman. What a lovely description and exemplary role model. In sleep there were no waking dreams of phantom faces at the windows, formless shadows on the floor. Just darkness. She had tried to quit so many times, and each time, she failed after the waking nightmare. She had lost her dignity, and no one cared. She would never wake up, and the only thing to do was sleep.

The forest was cool, and even quieter than her room. The trees' pale trunks stood at attention, their leaves shrouded in dark fog. All the world stood still in the forest, especially when it was raining.

Rosalind turned her face up to the soft, grey, cottony skies. She loved the forest. It was the only place where she was free of the illusion that plagued her mind. The green welcomed her. Deer walked beside her with calm assurance. Fox kits played at her feet. Birds flocked overhead. Wolves sang to her. She was truly a creature of the forest.

That was why this place would be perfect for what she had to do.

The stream sparkled at is caught the sparse light, making her think of Adrian. Her shining child.

Rosalind had watched the little girl grow up, out of the corner of her eyes, so that the child would never suspect. But she kept herself apart, afraid the perfect child would be tainted by her illness. And now, the fairy was fading away. Mother and daughter now mirrored each other, pale ghosts barely breathing, on the utmost edge of existence. It tore at Rosalind's heart to see her perfect one waste away, to find the only good in her miserable life fading like ink in water to a thin wash. And then to see that healthy, beautiful girl at the door. To see her heart's joy staring with wonder and slavish love at that girl. It broke her heart in two.

Rosalind's pace quickened. That girl had no right to be so healthy. She had no right to destroy what was dearest in Rosalind's life, and no right to take away what should never be hers.

Rosalind pushed through the trees as if they were simply matchsticks. She was frail inside the stagnant house where no children laughed, but here, in this green place where life rushed about her like a pulsing river, the heavy effects of the drug washed away, her arms flexed as easily as windblown grass, and her stride was swift and sure.

She stopped.

The cliff was overgrown with trees and moss, every rock green with life. The mist hung heavy on the scene, making the air like smoked glass. Flowers shone wetly in the rain, their colors becoming more vibrant and they stood out against the moss like jewels in the grass. Rocks littered the place, each one smooth from years of wear. A Celtic cross stood near the edge, planted by some long dead Irishman. That too was covered with moss, the stone weathered and beaten and covered in vines. It was beautiful there. The place where she had begun her life in the forest as a child. And the place where she would end it.

She stooped and picked up a rock, tossing it in her hand to feel its weight, and then placing it carefully in her pocket.

Other stones followed. Two stones. Three stones. Four stones.

_My daughter. My lovely little girl._

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

_God, forgive me for what I must do. Give me strength to go through with it, for my daughter._

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

_God, into your hands, I commend my spirit._

Twelve.

_I give my life to her. _

Adrian was still on her mind as she fell, without a sound.

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As Adrian made her way back to the basement (her father had not come back to take her), she thought over the strange encounter with her mother. What had happened to the silver goddess that had brought her into the world? Why was her mother so pale and tired, and why was her voice heavy with sorrow? Adrian had no way of knowing that she was now almost identical to her mother. There were no mirrors in the basement, and she so seldom traveled upstairs that she had never had the chance to see what she looked like. Being with Isobel made her feel happier than she ever had, and bone-tiredness was second in her recognition.

But her mother had kissed her. A tiny thing to other children, but to Adrian, it was worth all the world. She had been kissed by an angel, not a ghost. Adrian's thoughts were filled with logical machinery, but her dreams were filled with forlorn hopes of love. Her mother loved her. Just like Isobel did.

Even as a five-year-old child, Adrian possessed remarkable intelligence beyond her years. She managed to learn how to talk by listening to the doctor who occasionally came to check up on mama, and to the conversations her father held with the butler late at night. She had found a cache of old, tattered newspapers and taught herself how to read them. Mathematics came from the business section of the paper. All intellectual puzzles yielded to her touch, and no problem went unsolved when put under her mental scrutiny. But even with all this knowledge, Adrian failed to see what was happening to her. She knew she was nearly dead with exhaustion, but Isobel's influence never presented itself as the cause. Love, as they say, is blind, and Adrian couldn't see a thing.

She paused on the landing, panting for breath. Even the short descent was nearly impossible, and as she went further and further down, more of her vitality was drawn away. And yet she continued. Isobel was waiting, and she wouldn't like tardiness.

Finally, after many pauses for rest, she came to the top of the stairs to the basement. The darkness was nearly tangible here, but instead of the soft velvet she was accustomed to, this darkness was like slime coated silk. It oozed over and dragged her ever forward, towards the place that Isobel was surely waiting. Though she didn't know it, Adrian's eyes had an unhealthy spark in them, feverish with desire. She wanted to be with Isobel, to feed off of her beauty and friendship, to drink in her light and warmth. She needed it, needed to taste it, touch it, and feel its weighted light in her hands.

The bottom of the stairs.

Adrian struggled for breath, as if she was smothering. And yet a twisted smile of blind, sick joy twisted its way across her features. There was a candle in the basement, held by Isobel. How lovely she looked in the candle light! The curves of her face were silky and soft, and her hair and eyes gleamed.

Adrian stumbled towards Isobel, and sank down without a murmur to the floor, staring in abject wonder.

Oh, to be like that. So perfect and wonderful. The face that sailed a thousand ships.

"Adrian, come closer."

She did, till she was kneeling inches away from Isobel's skirts. Her strength was flickering dangerously low now, and the closer to Isobel she was, the more it ebbed.

Isobel smiled, melting Adrian's heart to a puddle.

She was about to say something else, when her face turned suddenly white, her mouth thinned to a line, and her pupils became pinpoints. She staggered, and leaning against the wall, lowered her head, her chest heaving. Suddenly, she let out a shriek and sank to the floor, her hands clawing at her breast in horrible agony.

"_**Your mother! The foul demon! She did this to me!"**_

Isobel continued to shriek, throwing her body against the walls. Adrian, weak as she was, could only stare in horror.

"_**Damn the witch, damn her soul, and let it burn slow!" **_

And then it was over. Isobel stood still, her breath coming in short gasps, and biting her lip till crimson blood welled up over pearly even teeth, which soon twisted into a snarl. Crossing the space between them with a single stride, Isobel gripped Adrian by the neck, knocking her to the floor. Adrian barely felt the impact of the hard, stone floor. This wasn't supposed to happen! Isobel was kind and wonderful! She was Adrian's best and only friend and companion, and now her nails bit into her flesh like the fangs of snakes!

"Do you know what your mother did?"

Adrian tried to mouth something, but nothing came to mind. It was much harder to think, or even breathe, with Isobel's face inches away.

"_Your mother killed herself, and left you all alone!"_

Isobel released Adrian, pushing her away harshly. Her raving fury was strangely manifest in the soft words she spoke.

"**_Your mother killed herself, because she couldn't bear to be mother to you! She killed herself because she hates you! Yes, she hates you, almost as much as I do!_**"

Adrian's mouth worked, and her eyes were wide, but she couldn't say a word. Isobel hated her? Her mother hated her? _They hated her!_

Something heavy, like lead, began to course through her veins like blood, filling her with cold. The two who she loved, the two who filled her thoughts, hated her. They hated her. They hated her. They hated her.

Adrian slowly curled into a ball, hiding her face in her knees. She was hated. And it was all her fault. She was tainted, poisonous. And they hated her. At the tender age of five, she wished desperately for death to still the throbbing pain of a shattered dream.

But something else, other than despair, filled her, pushing away the dead weight. It was something strong, something wild and silver with moonlight and stars. Something steel.

Very carefully, Adrian stood from her fetal position, looking Isobel straight in the eye.

"No, you are a…liar"

This last sentence came strained and quiet. Her former self might have thrown herself to the ground and prayed for forgiveness. But that was changed. Isobel was lying. She had to be lying! There was no way in hell that she could possibly be telling an ounce of truth. Mama loved her. Mama had said so much in that single kiss, hadn't she? She had given a gift more precious than gold to Adrian, and she could feel it now in her own veins. Her mother's life had not ended, it was here, inside her, pulsing like a silver animal, waiting to attack.

"_What did you call me_?"

In a flash, Adrian was on the floor, her hair being wrenched from her scalp. Isobel's fingers were no longer gentle. They bit and tore, each nail puncturing flesh and drawing blood.

Adrian became silent, refusing to part her lips. She was too metallic. She could no longer love this girl. She felt protected and invincible. And Isobel stared right back. She too, was metallic, and they clashed like two blades, sparks flying as the steel screeched in protest. Isobel would always have the upper hand. She would always keep Adrian under heel, in her shadow. But Adrian would always fight back, and keep herself from being part of that shadow, keep herself apart. From everyone.

For the first time, she was truly alone.

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Adrian awoke with a gasp.

Those dreams…so real, so painful.

She bit her lip hard, trying to remember the details, the parts that had never been in her memory before.

How could she have forgotten her mother? Her mother who loved her, who had kissed her? It all rushed back like the sea. Her mother had given her life to Adrian, to protect he from Isobel, to keep her from harm. If she had not, that night would have been Adrian's last alive. Isobel would have leached it from her, leaving nothing. And Adrian would have sat there and let it happen, a smile of delirious joy on her face, even in death. But she hadn't.

Adrian stood, wincing as her scars pulled.

She had woken up on the floor, in the strange house with no windows. The house that was inhabited by the god of the dead.

Adrian shivered and crawled between the covers of the canopied bed, drawing the protective film around herself.

She still had to decide what to do about the man who seemed to know what she hid with long sleeves and high collars. The best bet would be to give him an icy shoulder, and maybe he would let her go. Maybe.

But what if he didn't? What if he kept her there in this sunless world of strange, black magic? He was at least ten times as tall as she was, or at least he appeared to be. And every movement was cat-like and powerful. And he was the voice.

If he used his voice, and told her to stay with him forever, she would have no choice but to obey. And then Isobel would find them both, though it might take centuries. She would find them, and he would be dead, his god-like voice never to bind her senses ever again.

And then, Isobel would give her time to create a model of him. She would give her time to caress the wood, and scratch out its shape with her fingernails, carving an exact replica of the man, the shards of wood gouging her hands, drawing blood that flowed into the wood and made it perfect. Then, Isobel would erase him from her mind, along with all of the passion his voice had invoked. Isobel would be gentle, the night Adrian killed him. She would sit beside Adrian, as the corpse grew cold, press the blood-streaked face to her breast, and sing to her. She would sing away the pain that tore at Adrian's flesh and mind, sing away the man in black, stroke Adrian's hair and face, kiss her cheek, and in the morning, everything would be the same. And Isobel would no longer be kind.

Adrian turned over gingerly, careful of her ribs.

Another one gone. And another. And another. They came one after the other, a line of martyrs waiting to die. The doctor and his apprentice. Michele, the old hermit who taught her herb lore and house keeping. Brother Dominic, the Franciscan who taught her to mold wood to life-like shapes. Monsieur and Madame Fontain, the simple farmers who had given her a taste of childhood. And the Professor.

The Professor, who advance her knowledge in music and art, science and languages, architecture and history, geography and astronomy.

Of all of them, the Professor was the only one who might have known he was going to die. When she had entered the room with murder in her thoughts, he had turned around and fixed her with a stare above his spectacles, as if to say, " Do with me what you will; I am waiting."

She had killed him with a scream of agony tearing at her throat. A scream that echoed through the night as she ran away from his house, a scream that was still echoing, though she kept both lips and mind sealed.

It was strange that she should remember this all now. She had thought that it would be many years before the bonds of her mind were broken, and the memories allowed to spill out.

"Shh, shh. Open your mind to me, and I'll wash it all away." So tempting, to succumb to the numbing peace of erased memories.

But those memories came back now with a vengeance.

Was the hour so late that all she had left were painful memories? Where was the good that was surely flying free in the world, waiting for anyone who dared to grab it out of the air and make it rich and golden?

This man who had saved her life was all she had left. Someone who had climbed out to take her off the side of the Opera Populaire, and carry her to this place like a foundling child. Perhaps…

A strange thought began to form in her mind, as poisonous, yet tempting as Eden's forbidden apples. What if, just this once, she didn't tell Isobel the…exact truth?

What if, when she returned, Isobel was not told of the man who sang in blood and smoke, was told that everything was exactly as it should be. What if she was told a blatant lie of lonely night by herself, when she had really been taking a chance to be happy? Why not have friends, go out, and attempt to grab the happiness that surely was waiting for her, flying in the wind? Isobel would never need to know. For two more months, Adrian was by herself. Two months to take a stab at happiness. Two months to start and stop friendships and erase all evidence.

When the man came through the door, as she knew he would, she would talk to him, not just for hard information, but to perhaps learn about what could generate such music that was painted with raw, pulsing, passionate life. Blood in the air, real and living, not tainted by human hands and turned dead.

An odd emotion spun itself over her brain. A feeling that puzzle pieces that she had been turning and pushing into the wrong spaces all her life were finally perfectly matched.

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**Sorry for the wait; I rewrote this chapter about ten times before posting it. It was originally a lot shorter, but I stayed up all night thinking that it wasn't enough, so here you have it! By the way, RENT ( the musical ) is SO GOOD. Listen to it, NOW!**


	16. Chapter 16 Stone

**The song "One Song Glory" I think is very PotO-esque. It's about a former rock star who is trying to write another song before he dies. For the Phantom, I think this was what he was accomplishing with Don Juan Triumphant. The song is ever so sad. I might start crying! Go ERIK! Woot!**

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Listening at the door to Adrian's room, Erik heard the soft sounds of one asleep, and dared to enter.

Once more, her icy beauty struck him. What would that marble face look like, if pulled into a smile? Somehow, he found it hard to imagine. Whenever he tried, the heart-shaped face and jewel-like eyes faded away, leaving only a smile he had seen on another face. It was as if she didn't know how to smile.

Exiting the room cautiously, not wanting to wake her up, Erik made his way to his expansive library.

Spider-like hands running over the leather spines occupying the shelves, Erik racked his brains in an attempt to choose a book for Adrian. What would interest her? What book could possibly grab her selective attention?

His fingers finally came to rest upon a thin volume, battered from years of use. "The Portrait of Dorian Grey", by Oscar Wilde. Erik pulled the book from the shelf, and skimmed through the introduction. Erik was a very selective reader, and while all that he read immediately stuck itself into his brain, he rarely found a book that he could read for pleasure more than once. This was one of the few. Perhaps she would feel the same.

After choosing a few more books Erik set the stack on a table near the door. He would probably bring those books to her after dinner.

Three days. He had three days to set a foundation for their friendship. As an architect, Erik knew what all men of that trade have pounded into their brains by their teachers: The foundation is the most important part of the building. A shaky foundation could bring even the most perfect building to ruin. This particular one must be built on trust and shared ideas. Their personalities were very similar (at least from what he could see) although that alone would not be enough. Those were only the bricks. Bricks need mortar if they are to stick together.

These thoughts brought his lack of projects to mind. When were they to come? True, he had at least three king's ransoms stowed away in various safe houses across Paris, but he needed to use some of his creative energy. He needed an outlet for the complex staircases and labyrinths that even now ran through his brain.

Paris needed a few more grand sweeping buildings to relieve some of the dingier monuments. He had thousands of plans stashed away in his brain and in various shelves in his workroom. They demanded to be used. All he needed were those magic words from Jules: A new project has come in.

In truth, Erik knew he had become much too idle. In Persia, it had been just the opposite. He had cursed every word the sultana had uttered, every order for a new distraction. Even the simplest toy must be made into an instrument of death. His room of mirrors had been turned into a torture chamber. A work of art turned ugly. How dare she!

Once more, Erik remembered how Isobel sounded so like the sultana. Who was Isobel? She sounded too young to be Adrian's mother. But then again, he had not the slightest clue as to how old Adrian was. Probably in her early twenties, no younger than seventeen, no older than twenty-five.

The clock struck four.

It was an old, detailed grandfather piece. At the change from night to day, the smiling crescent moon behind the etched glass switched to a full sun, and a little tune chimed. As a child, Erik had based his first compositions on the tune. It had sat in the front hall of that grand mansion of his childhood. They really didn't make pieces like that any more.

The ancient clock required constant maintenance in order to stay on time, but otherwise, it was a reliable timepiece.

Everything in his home had memories attached to it. Objects that triggered flash backs were strewn around his home in unexpected places. At times, he would stumble upon one, and memories would flood back. Sometimes those memories were painful, and sometimes happy, but they were too much a part of him to forget.

Everything here was timeless and memory laden. In a world without sun, wind and rain, all things remained perfect and immortal. That was another thing about Adrian that brought life into his dull existence: She was filled with life, like water, ever changing and finding new paths. The diamond among so many dull rocks.

He wanted life. He wanted light other than that from a candle. Music and Adrian were light and life. There was nothing to change or create in the carpet or the clock. But there was new music to write, and a mind to explore in his guest.

Smoke and mirrors are poor companions; love and music are forever.

A fervent wish formed itself deep within his soul. A forbidden wish that beckoned to him with seductive words.

He wanted her to stay forever.

He wanted to always have someone to care for, someone under his roof other than himself, another voice echoing through his halls of stone.

But that was impossible. He would never be able to _make _her do anything. He might as well ask a rock to spread wings and fly.

But…

_No. Get that notion out of your head right now._

But what if he sang to her, commanded her to stay with him forever and always? He would have an eternal companion, someone to talk to, someone who perhaps would respond to him with warmth and love. They would fence and walk beside the lake, talking. For the rest of her life, she would live with him in his home beneath the ground, and he would treat her as more than an equal. She would love him. He knew very well that he could use his voice for such a purpose.

But then he wouldn't have the friend he desired, he would have a lapdog. And it would pain him to see her so humbled. She was a goddess, not a slave.

He wanted to keep her, but he had to let her go. In order to obtain life, he would have to endure ten thousand deaths.

Deaths.

Why was it that he kept overlooking the fact that she had brutally murdered six people?

Unlike a smile, a murderous snarl seemed perfectly in place when applied to that stony countenance. According to the articles and Jules's notes, she had torn out their throats like a wild animal. She had mauled them till their faces were beyond human resemblance.

And yet…

There was something not right. It was as if he had made an infinitesimal mistake in some problem, and it would not become clear what it was till he had the final results. Yes, she had killed those people, but why? Was it just an insane fit that came upon her now and then? Or had she retaliated against some wrong the people had done her? And if the latter was true, then why was she guilty about it?

Once again, Isobel came into the picture.

Erik could not help thinking that Isobel's identity was an integral piece of the puzzle. He needed to find out who she was, and what connection she had to Adrian to really understand any part of the silent girl's mind.

Erik knew that he should be apprehensive of a murderess under his roof, but he was somehow incapable of feeling anything but compassion and admiration for the little lost child who held herself so coldly above the rest of the world.

There was much more under Adrian Cartier's surface than one would think. She was not just a haughty ice queen who glided on a surface of indifference. There was black, churning smoke beneath those distant gems that took the place of eyes.

Erik could sense the guilt that plagued her night and day. It hung around her slight form like a premonition of death. Guilt was not just an emotion, it was a taste on the air. He remembered that crushing sense of guilt he had had with him from birth, that realization that he was a terrible mistake, one of the few made by God. He had felt only guilt for his face, guilt that it frightened his mother till she hated him with unrestrained passion. Until he had discovered power.

That guilt, while ever present, had been put neatly away when he had discovered his power to strike fear into the heart of humankind. How that power had intoxicated him! The power of God surging through his veins! He _was_ God then, and all men were subject to him. Necromancy, science, nature and all forms of legerdemain were his to command.

Erik had never really felt guilty about killing the odd person once in a while. Some people just deserved to die. The deaths in Persia had been a waste, true. But he had never really felt guilty about it then, and only felt the slightest twinge of remorse now. A bit egotistical, possibly, but the human race was the category of a large number of annoying individuals who would do the world a favor by simply doing themselves in. Of course, being human, they had not the slightest instinct of when to die, and continued to add more suffering and annoyance to the world because of their stupidity, until another obliging member of the human race, old age or disease took them to a well earned grave. Yes, some people had deserved to die under his hands. And who was there to argue the point?

And oh, how sweet it was! He had everything in Persia, everything that could be paid or threatened for. And that was where his awesome supremacy stopped short.

He could have everything but what money and threats could not buy. That was the poison in power's sweet, golden honey. The one thing he desired beyond power was a woman's affection, and not all the gold in the world could possibly procure even a morsel of it.

Erik slammed his hand upon the tabletop and the books fell to the floor. It was times like these when he was most convinced that his life was a tragic farce being staged for someone else's enjoyment. He could not, would not think of Christine. All humans are born with the innate ability to protect themselves, and by keeping Christine from his thoughts, Erik was keeping himself from being torn apart from the inside. So close, he was _so close_ to having her for his own, until that…_boy…_

How? How in God's name could that _female_ still wrench out his brain after so long? Why did he feel so murderous at the thought of her, and at the same time, so hopeless?

He sat down heavily in his chair.

He had built an entire life on Christine, and entire existence based on her, and she had destroyed it. The pillars had started to tumble the second she had seen his face. And, like a fool, he had gone on believing that she would stay with him always, in spite of that horrifying face he had used to make a nation cower at the sound of his laughter. Oh yes, he was a fool.

He was like the astronomer in Aesop's fable. The wise man, while contemplating the stars in the heavens, failed to notice the ditch he was walking into, and tumbled in head first, breaking his neck. Erik's predicament was the same. His head had been clouded with thoughts of happiness, and he had broken more than is neck.

She had been planning on leaving without even telling him, she had planned to leave him in his underground home, watching the clock, counting the moments till she would appear…but she wouldn't. He would wait, pacing to and fro, wondering what was taking her so long, anxiously clenching and unclenching his hands. And he would wait there for hours until he went up to look for her, only to discover that she had vanished into thin air, with that insolent boy who professed to _love_ her.

She would leave him to a sure death, _because she loved the boy back_. And she did not love her angel of music. Oh yes, she cared for him as a friend and teacher, but she could never love him. He was the omniscient force behind so many lives; few people can talk directly with God. All good Christians revere God, but they are also afraid of Him. That was the difference between The Phantom of the Opera and the human race in general. He was venerated, but in no way was he loved.

If it weren't for him, she would only be another chorus girl, another ornament to the stage, no more than a silk flower.

But he had brought her to greatness. All he wanted was her love, and what he received was betrayal. She would break his heart and suffer but one sleepless night before returning to normal. The living dead man who breathed his magic into songs was only a bad dream, and now she would raise a family with the man she loved.

The clock struck six, shaking Erik from his dark reverie.

It was time for Adrian's dinner. She would need food to gain her strength and then to rejoin those who lived at the surface. He would give her supper, and then, perhaps they would talk.

This was his second chance at happiness. A chance to help an independent woman who needed him more than anyone else ever would. As he needed her.

_Maybe this is all a mistake. Perhaps I should just knock her out, carry her to her room and let her think this was all a dream. _

"Shut up, you. I have enough on my mind at the moment."

_You know what happened the last time. What if it happens again?_

"It won't happen again. I'll be more careful this time."

_She isn't a child the way Christine was. You won't be able to fool her._

"I don't plan to."

_If you don't fool her, how will you capture her affection?_

"Well, however I do, you'll be the first to know!"

_You're much too old for her._

"I'm not old!"

_That's probably over ten years of difference._

"Who said how old she was?"

_Take an educated guess, you can figure it out._

"She's older than me, in some ways."

_Some isn't enough. She needs someone young, someone who…_

"I'm young enough! Why do we keep coming back to how old I am?"

_Because old or not, you are too old for her._

"Why don't you jump in the lake?"

_Why don't you crawl into the sewers and die?_

"Who says I haven't?"

_She's afraid of you._

Silence.

_She's deathly afraid of you. The only reason you aren't dead is because she's sick. And that's all. The second she gets back on her feet, she'll kill you, and then she'll run away and continue to kill, because that's her nature. She. Is. An. Animal. And an animal does whatever is necessary to survive. She is afraid of you, and she will kill you if she gets the chance. Dose her food with laudanum, wait till she's unconscious, and then take her to her room. She will forget all about you. It was all a bad dream…_

"**NO!"**

The other voice ceased. No. Somehow, it was all wrong. It had to be wrong. There was something that told him Adrian was not directly at fault. She needed him to protect her, but he knew not from what.

She needed him. And he would aid her as best he could.

Wasn't that what he wanted in the first place?

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Madame Bufont was not a woman inclined to be nervous. She never let herself be. She was far too busy to be nervous. On top of her demanding job, she had her grandson Oscar to support, and his nurse to pay. She had been ridiculed by the other children as a child, and had taught herself not to be nervous, but let all things that weren't important slip off her like water off a duck's back.

But she was nervous now, and intensely worried.

She had not seen Adrian Cartier within the last three days, and was beginning to wonder where she had gone. She had searched the Opera House in her spare time, interrogating employees and M. Wagner. No one seemed to know where Mlle. DeFleurette's maid had gone.

Finally, in an act of desperation, she had walked up to the diva and inquired Adrian's whereabouts.

The lady had looked up from her polished nails, and had stared at Madame Bufont with a mixture of fright and disbelief. Then, she had breezily said something about not knowing where the maid had gone, and then flounced off to the shopping district.

There was something wrong in that. Madame Bufont had not previously assessed the diva as capable of murder, but the circumstances were too curious to be ignored. Adrian was missing, and the diva had something to do with it.

In the past few days, the temperature had dropped far too low for early October. Snow and rain mixed as they fell to produce stinging sleet, and the streets were slippery.

Trying to ignore the cold, she climbed the steps that led to her second story apartment. It was almost as cold in the stairwell as it was outside, but there was a fire roaring at home.

She turned the key in the lock and opened the door to a cheerful blaze. But she still felt cold beneath the skin.

What if Adrian was dead? Where on earth was she if she lived? Was she cold and hungry?

_Calm down Manon, calm down. She's probably visiting a friend. Or a relative. Or she's at the bottom of a ditch with her throat slit…_

Sitting in her armchair, Madame Bufont sighed with exhaustion.

Her multiple mindsets were demanding, and it took a lot of energy to juggle them during the day. With "wanted" posters and bloodied daggers on her mind, she fell asleep.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Adrian awoke suddenly, her body shaking convulsively, every scar burning white hot. When it was over, she rolled over gingerly. Her ribs were aching, and her head throbbed unpleasantly. She only had that dream once in a blue moon, and it always brought disastrous effects on her mind and body. Her thoughts were vulnerable and weak, and so muddled that she never remembered the dream.

A knock sounded on the door, and it opened.

It was him. Adrian almost held her breath, for some reason grateful that the canopy was still enshrouding her bed. She was not sure how she could face him in her state, while her hands shook and she could feel that her eyes were still wide and carrying the uncertain dread of the dream. Pretending to be asleep, Adrian watched her host with odd fascination. For some reason, his every movement seemed vastly important and laden with meaning. Her eye was naturally drawn to him in a way that she could not reason with.

He seemed to eye her critically through the curtain, as if wondering whether to wake her, and then set something heavy on the bedside table, before moving away and exiting the room. He never made a single sound. Everything he did seemed to be done with utmost care and attention, and even his breath made no noise. For a moment, Adrian was reminded of something, as if she had known this man centuries ago, but failed to call him to mind. The feeling soon passed, and Adrian made no attempt to stop it. Notions of that nature often evaporated entirely when pursued. It would return of its own accord at another time. For now, the thing he had set by the bed demanded attention.

It was a heavy, silver tray topped with a lid that warmed her hands. More of the delicious food she had eaten earlier! She lifted the tray carefully, and set it in her lap, propping herself up on the pillows. The lid opened to a rich smell and plenty of steam.

Lamb stew, mixed with spices, potatoes and carrots. It was accompanied by crusty white bread, a glass of water and a mug of tea.

Adrian immediately dived upon the fork, and only a last moment's restraint kept her from shoving her face into the dark, oily broth. The food only continued to get better, and this time, she could feel a bit of her vitality come back.

The meal finished, a black-edged envelope caught her eye. A note from him.

She opened it carefully, noting the precise, yet slightly spidery handwriting. The note was brief, cold and unsigned.

_Mlle. Cartier,_

_When you have finished your meal, please join me in the room at the end of the hall. There are a few things I wish to discuss with you. _

Once again, he kept strictly away from anything even approaching conversation. His writing was just as cold and metallic as his speech.

_The room at the end of the hall…he must mean the room I was in earlier. _

Wondering vaguely what he wished to tell her, she pushed away the canopy and swung her legs over the side. The action took more effort than she had thought it would. The room spun for a few moments before she regained her head.

Lurching to her feet, Adrian limped towards the door. Suddenly, movement caught her eye. Realizing that it was only her reflection, Adrian took a single glance at the girl in the vanity mirror, and then did a double take.

She looked like a dandelion someone had just puffed on. Tufts of hair stuck out from her head, while the rest lay flat and oily on her scalp. Her cheeks seemed hollow and there were substantial circles under her eyes.

_I must be more ill than I thought. _

Sitting at the vanity, Adrian picked up the brush that lay there and pulled it slowly through her unruly locks. She met with tangles, and abandoned the brush for a comb.

A memory stirred in the back of her head. Someone had used to brush her hair, made her take care of it. They used to sit her down before a mirror and pull the brush over her golden tresses, taming it into a long, straight braid that didn't get in her way.

Adrian could not say why she kept her hair so long. It wasn't one of Isobel's rules. She herself was not particularly vain. But for some reason, she was proud of her hair. Proud of it because someone else had been proud of it long ago.

Her heart began to pound in her ears, drowning out the silence. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Her pulsing hell was returning, and this time, there was no music to push it away, no voice to wrap her in its smooth embrace.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Dropping the comb, Adrian pressed her hands to her temples, wildly attempting to squeeze it out of her brain.

So long ago. It had been so long ago. She had forgotten those terrible things for good!

_Oh please go away…please._

No! She was steel, made of stronger stuff, and steel has no memory.

Long ago, someone used to be proud of her. Love. She had had love before.

Long ago. She had had no soul then, she had no soul now. No heart. No memory.

_Isobel, help me!_

_Calm now, easy, easy…tighten the shoulders, stiff upper lip. There's nothing to be upset about. See? It is forgotten. Nothing of the sort happened. Hush now, my love. Nothing happened. It was but a dream, from which you have happily awoken. Yes, yes…I know darling, I know. The moon turns away, the stars are cold, and the earth whispers for your blood. But see, I can make it all go away. I will make you numb. _

Yes. All those years ago, when her heart had pounded her to death, and she had screamed wildly for Isobel to help her. And Isobel had.

Adrian picked up the comb again.

Her dress was folded on a chair and waiting for her. Pulling it over her now braided and coiled hair, Adrian blinked dispassionately, ready to meet Him. The was no past to mar her face with humanity, only silent stone. She would give him common courtesy, listen closely, and answer his questions. It was so easy to tell a lying truth and hide behind her eyes.

Walking slowly, and with great care, Adrian opened the door to the room and shut the door to her mind.

………………………………………………………………………………………

**Well, kiddies…were it worth the wait? I was having some creative issues. I couldn't find myself; I was walking away from the light…you know, that sort of thing. Sorry that nothing has really happened yet. In the next chapter, perhaps. Much love…and such!**


	17. Chapter 17 Books

Erik waited impatiently in his chair, now glaring at the fireplace, now at the door, now at the rich Persian carpet at his feet. He would have paced before the fireplace, but did not want to admit to such a degree of nervousness. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his brow deeply furrowed. Nervous? Maybe not, but he was becoming dangerously close.

What if she didn't come? What if she was still too weak? She had only made it to his sitting room by the skin of her teeth the last time, and he had heard her fall down before she had appeared at the door. Of course, you could not expect someone to suffer a near convulsive fever and wake up the picture of health.

There was always the possibility that she didn't want to come, but he had decided not to think about it. The memory of that cold fear which had crossed her eyes...he wasn't sure whether he should be angry and annoyed, or hopeless. When he had last looked in on her, she had been fast asleep. He had no idea how she would react to his presence now. An image of a little girl child, huddled into a trembling ball, popped unheeded into his head.

He could easily imagine what she had looked like as a child. She was probably very thin, almost scrawny, with a cloud of golden hair tumbling untamed over her shoulders; a little fairy princess.

She had most definitely changed. That hair was pulled up and back to reveal those sharp features and eyes that spoke nothing of her sylvan nature. Poor little fairy, to be hardened so young. When she died, she would most definitely go to heaven; she'd already served her time in hell.

The door opened, and Erik nearly held his breath. Did he dare to hope, or was it just one of the house's tricks, like creaking floorboards at night, imitating human voices?

He slowly detached his eyes from the carpet and turned to face the sound.

Adrian's eyes were fixed on his, as if he fascinated her to the skies. But it was more likely that having her eyes fixed upon her destination was the only thing keeping her on balance. Though she was obviously trying to hide it, she swayed with exhaustion. Her hair was pulled back into the familiar coiled braid, and she wore the brown dress that completed the image. He had been tempted to burn the ugly thing, but had not, seeing how there were no clothes to fit her on hand.

She took a step. Then another. Each one was painfully slow, as if she moved underwater. He smothered the impulse to get up and assist her. This was her first walk unassisted and without mishaps, and she would have to practice if she was to ever walk freely again. When she finally stopped, a bit of the strain in her face relaxed, as if she had shed a heavy burden.

They faced one another, eye to eye, neither one breaking their gaze. She, ramrod straight and on her feet. He, leaned back, legs crossed, steepled fingers and cocked brow; the picture of idle male supremacy. A brief contest of wills began.

It was now, more than ever that he realized how tall she seemed and how short she actually was. The top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders. Christine had been much taller, but had given the impression of a woman half her stature. Adrian appeared to tower at his level. In his eyes, it was a much more favorable trait.

Finally, Erik broke the stillness by uncrossing his legs and standing, offering her the adjacent chair with a cool gesture. She acknowledged this with a brief nod, walked with the same careful pace toward it, and sat down with unmistakable relief.

Once again, silence prevailed. This time, it was Adrian who broke it.

"What did you wish to discuss with me, Monsieur?"

_So cold, my child. Such mild words, such hostile feeling. _

He sat back down and leaned forward slightly. This was to be expected. Making sure that his manner would match hers for coolness, he began to speak.

"As you are now a…guest in my house, I felt that I should reinforce some of the things I said this morning, and introduce some new ones. First of all, you have been here for three days, this one being the fourth. It is the eve of the seventh of October."

So far, so good. No emotion. He was beginning on her level, and (he hoped) they would both build it up from there. The only way to get to the top was to begin at the bottom.

"Second, you have been suffering from a severe fever and several minor injuries. I suggest that you continue to sleep as much as possible if you are to ever get back on your feet. I shall take you to the place of your choosing when I see that you are fully recovered"

She nodded, indicating that she understood.

"Third, I suggest that you not attempt to leave this house. If you do, there is an exceptional possibility that you will drown."

Erik nearly laughed at himself. The sentence sounded ridiculous, but if she was surprised, she said nothing, though her pupils dilated slightly. She never questioned that a random stranger, out of all the population of Paris had chosen to nurse her back to health. She simply took it without comment. At least she wasn't the annoyingly inquisitive type, who stuck her nose into everything.

"Fourth, your room is connected to a bathroom that I think will suit all of your needs. If you wish for anything else, ask me, and I will try to assist you. And last…"

He reached for the books he had picked out earlier.

"It must be dull sitting in bed all day. I believe these might make the time pass."

Was it his imagination, or did it seem that she wanted to say more than "Thank you Monsieur." At any rate, she said this, and made her slow way back to her room, the books making her progress all the slower.

When he had taken out the books, a strange expression crossed her face; an expression which he could not identify. Her eyes had changed. They had not softened, but they had most definitely changed. A curious sensation of having accomplished something important made the corners of his mouth twist into a barely perceptible smile.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

One, two, one, two. Right, left, right, left.

The hallway seemed just as endless as it had last time. And just as dark. That was the problem with no windows: there was never any light. Still, she continued to walk in a straight line, forever onward and onward.

It was all she could do, really. At least she wasn't falling down or anything. And the hallway continued on to eternity.

How would this encounter go? Remembering the cold formality of the letter, Adrian's face tightened ever so slightly. It was as if he was a twin. The wrong twin was the one she had been in contact with, and the right twin was the one whose miraculous music she had heard.

The door.

_Please let it be the right twin._

The door opened easily, and without a sound. Funny, but nothing seemed to make any noise in this house. Her bare feet padded silently on the stone floors, and even her breath seemed muffled.

She barely took in the crackling fire, or the hundreds of books that lined the shelves. He was the only thing in the room. His presence dominated the very air, smothering anything that might have existed prior.

As if an icy thread was strung between them, they stared at one another, barely breathing. Suddenly, he shattered the stillness, stood and gestured to the chair that sat alongside his own. Making sure that her pace would not reveal her slight limp she sat down and faced him.

"What did you wish to discuss with me, Monsieur?"

He watched her for but a moment, his eyes vaguely reproachful, as if he disliked her cool tone.

As he sat forward, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, Adrian felt a bit childish and stupid, as if she was a schoolgirl whose teacher found her at fault.

"As you are now a…guest in my house, I felt that I should reinforce some of the things I said this morning, and introduce some new ones. First of all, you have been in my house for three days, this one being the fourth. It is the eve of the seventh of October."

The way he had paused before the word guest seemed to be vaguely sarcastic. She was more like a patient in his hospital.

Four days…it seemed like four weeks. Had their last talk only been that morning? The cool look of his face pulled her away from the words.

How easily he spoke, and with such manners and grace! His voice matched his clothes perfectly, and the white mask seemed oddly fitting. She did not question the mask. He most probably had an excellent reason for having it on, which he did not care to share with her.

"Second, you have been suffering from a severe fever and several minor injuries. I suggest that you continue to sleep as much as possible if you are to ever get back on your feet. I shall take you to the place of your choosing when I see that you are fully recovered"

Adrian nodded slightly. The bone-crushing tiredness she felt even now could only be cured by sleep.

"Third, I suggest that you not attempt to leave this house."

Coming from anyone else, Adrian would have interpreted the words as those of imprisonment. But somehow, these had an oddly welcoming quality.

"If you do, there is an exceptional possibility that you will drown."

_Drown? I must be near the river. _Surely she had enough sense in her head to avoid the water in her state! But he seemed to know what he was talking about. Her sense of inferiority increased.

"Fourth, your room is connected to a bathroom that I think will suit all of your needs. If you wish for anything else, ask me, and I will try to assist you. And last…"

Adrian's heart practically stopped beating as time slowed to a momentary crawl.

Books. He was giving her books to read. And if the titles revealed anything, they were works of fiction, not atlases or books of history. They were what Isobel called "fanciful books" and according to her, they were not worth reading. Adrian had to disagree. They enchanted her. Every word stuck into her head and was played over and over like music. The Professor had taught her that. The Professor had taught her many things.

As the weight of the books in her hands disrupted her thoughts, Adrian looked closely at the man's eyes, searching them for something other to say than, "Thank you, Monsieur." As she left the room, she felt horribly inadequate.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Entering her room, Adrian noted the sleepy, messy air it seemed to have aquired during her short absence. The air was thicker here, and warmer: a room made for sleeping.

However, her mind resisted the clinging aura of sleep. The aching weariness of before had been pushed to the back of her mind and replaced by a sense of expectation. There was something exciting about him that she could read below his frigid demeanor. She felt at once anxious and delighted. Sleep was the last thing on her mind.

He had said that sleep would improve her condition, and Adrian was faintly reminded of her ardent desire to return to health and the outside world. That wish seemed so far away now, but still, rest was important. A hot bath would sooth her heart beat to something approaching normal.

Pulling aside the heavy scarlet curtain and entering the door behind, Adrian was greeted by dazzling white, accented with soft green. The tub was made of white marble and green sea glass and reminded her of a fountain. The faucet was located so that the water would flow over shelves and channels set in the immaculate stone before hitting the tub itself.

The water proved to be comfortably warm and Adrian sank into a delicious torpor, her eyes half closed. This was by far much better than the bathroom in her room. That tub had been rather narrow and unimaginative, barely allowing her knees below the surface. This one was enormous in comparison, and let her rest comfortably while she bathed. After soaping and rinsing her hair, she reluctantly left the tub. The water was starting to cool, and a cold was the last thing she needed.

Dried, dressed in a nightgown, warm and content, Adrian sank into bed. The three books beckoned warmly to her, offering their contents with languid ease. Lifting the first one off of the stack, she examined the cover with curiosity. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. Settling back into the pillows, she opened the book.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Colorful oaths learned from his years with the gypsies filled Erik's kitchen before he subsided into a brooding silence. He had cut his thumb with the knife he had been using to cut up his own dinner. It wasn't only the pain of the cut, but the fact that he had allowed it to happen that blackened his mood. Usually, he knew precisely what he was doing at all times, and there was no room for error. But these days, he was always distracted.

After quickly binding the wound, he placed his scant meal upon a tray and went to the lakeside to eat.

Poking at his food, he sat in a dark reverie, too preoccupied to even touch the bread and cheese. God, but they were always on his mind! Soft brown eyes filled with tears turned into blue and green, to cold to cry and then back again. Tightly curled chestnut locks became flowing and golden before curling again. The images collided with one another, melding and folding till the actual shape was unrecognizable. Erik sighed petulantly, before tearing a hunk of bread off with his teeth. These days, he was never sure which image tormented him most. Christine's memory was painful, Adrian's face provoked…guilt? Surely not! But there it was, before his eyes. He had almost pledged his life to Christine, had professed to love her, but she had left him with nothing to soften his existence. Adrian filled that void where only memories existed, he was almost happy when in her presence. And yet…

Erik swore again. He had bitten his tongue. Throwing the remaining food into the lake with disgust, he stomped down the shore towards his house.

………………………………………………………………………………………

Adrian swore softly, but with no less energy than a shriek would have vented. Of the few books she had read, none had been as hard as this one. She was frustrated, for although she could see only prose, she had a strong feeling that she was missing some meaning written in the colossal volume. If the professor was there, he would have explained it perfectly, and sound neither patronizing, nor confusing. Then, perhaps she could read the book in peace, with the knowledge that she wasn't missing something right before her eyes!

Suddenly, she heard distant yelling of profanities. Apparently, her host had a short temper. He stomped about for a while before a door slammed and the house was quiet again.

Looking back to the book, Adrian attempted (once again) to read the first chapter. And (once again), her thoughts trailed off from the words, refusing to stay put. Sighing, she put the book down, deciding to try it another time. She was too discouraged by her initial failure to attempt the other books.

A door slammed again, jolting her from her frustration. He was back from wherever he had been, and judging from the absense of stomping, had calmed down slightly. Adrian wondered what had upset him.

_I must be a terrible inconvenience_, she thought vaguely. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the house, and she had a feeling that he didn't get much company.

As the moments ticked by, her feeling of being a burden intensified.

_He cooks for me, he doctors me, he takes me into his home, he gives me books to read, and I don't even know his name. Yet he knows mine._

Come to think of it, he seemed to know a great deal more about her than she did about him! Uneasiness crept into her mind. It was one of Isobel's cardinal rules to know more about the other person than they knew about her. The knowledge that she had broken this rule wasn't helping at all, and Adrian wished that she had never come to the Populaire in the first place. But only for a moment, because then she remembered the voice, and any wish to be elsewhere faded away. Besides, he had not attacked her in any way. For the three days she had been unconscious, he could have easily taken advantage of the situation. But, as far as she knew, he hadn't. Funnily enough, she almost trusted him, even though she hardly knew him at all.

Picking up the book, she began to read again, her fingertips set resolutely at her lips.

After what seemed hours later, a knock sounded at the door. An insane thought entered her mind like a fear-crazed mouse. "Ask him to help you!" It squealed before dashing away.

_An interesting idea._ The calmer voices soothed the mouse-thought, taking control of the situation. _Ask him to help you understand. He said that he would assist you in any way he could. Just look at him! He seems intelligent enough. Ask him. He wants you to._

"Come in." Her voice level, her face calm, she smoothed out the nightgown she was wearing in an attempt to look impassive.

The way he stood in the door way reminded her of a big cat, appearing lazy but being far from it. He seemed nonchalant, unmoved and unmovable. He was only here because he had nothing else better to do. But for all that, she saw right through him. Perhaps it was a slight change in the tilt of his head, a miniscule shift in the angle of his brow, a tiny alteration of the slope of his shoulders. He was only keeping that cool, distant air because that was what she was doing. Now he resembled a crow, mischievously mimicking her in an attempt to understand. Those calm voices were right. He _wanted _her to ask.

They regarded one another for several moments, as she attempted to find words to express herself. She needn't have tried. He understood exactly what she wanted, and sat in the chair beside her bed.

"Are you enjoying the books?"

She almost nodded, but stopped. She had barely read one chapter. To nod would be to lie. He held out a hand for the book.

After examining the cover, he nodded, as if it had told him something that he had already guessed.

"This book is known for being difficult to read. I find it easier to follow and understand when read aloud. It might help you, and it would pass the time."

Adrian nodded carefully, taking care to hide the warm feeling that buzzed in the back of her head. It had been so long since someone had read to her. So long. The last one to do it had been the professor, and she had left his house months ago. Settling back on the pillows, she gestured for him to begin.

The man was a wonderful reader, his voice lilting perfectly over every phrase. Once in a while, she would stop him to ask a question, and he would answer in a way that reminded her of the professor: neither confusing, nor patronizing.

As she listened to his melodic voice, she found that she was able to better concentrate on the story.

Suddenly, the reader's voice faded into silence. Adrian looked up in surprise. They had been there for hours, far into the night and into the new day, and yet she felt as if the story had only recently begun. The tale of Jean Val Jean was so mesmerizing, the suffering he had undergone, the suffering of Fantine and Cosette. They had reached the point when Marius and Cosette had met, and confessed their love for one another. It did not seem like the end, and yet he had stopped. Why?

"It is very late, or rather, very early, Mademoiselle. We have been reading for at least ten hours without pause. Besides," He took out a pocket watch. "It's almost breakfast time"

Ten hours! Had it really been that long? To a certain extent, Adrian felt guilty. Ten hours was a long time to read aloud. He had neither complained, nor hesitated for all that time. Even if the book was not yet over, he deserved a break.

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Monsieur."

"After breakfast, we can continue reading if you like." His voice had undertones of grim amusement that she couldn't understand. Through the entire ten hours he had read to her, his voice had kept emotionless, going only so far as the characters' word, and only touching upon the emotion behind them. She was slowly getting more accustomed to him, and his steely tones which so resembled hers were almost welcoming.

After another delicious breakfast (he ate with her) they went back to the book. She was sitting with her knees drawn up slightly to her chest (as close as her ribs would allow), her eyes fixed on her knees, but darting to the man's face every now and then. They continued reading till lunchtime, and then continued after the meal.

As they went through the sad plight of Eponine's unrequited love for Marius, his reading became suddenly strained. His jaw was clenched, and if he had been a cat, his hair would have stood on end. As Eponine died of a bullet wound taken for Marius's sake, Adrian felt her chest tighten, and closed her eyes. The man seemed to feel the same way, and his jaw continued to tighten as his eyes iced over.

Suddenly, the book snapped shut and the man stood quickly, exiting the room with a flare of his cloak.

Adrian only looked after him, not daring to call out.

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**I do not like this chapter AT ALL. I feel as if I'm leaving something out. Please help?**


	18. Chapter 18 Dreams

**A note about the last chapter. I am fully well aware that in the Kay book, Christine's bathroom in Erik's house is made of pink marble. The reason I changed it :I hate pink marble. Erik would never stoop to something that distasteful. I'm sure that he would approve of my design. Okay, on with the show!**

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The little girl sat on the floor, playing with a doll. It wore an exquisite dress patterned with violets and orchids, and ribbons in its thick, black hair. The girl was dressed more simply in a white cotton dress, her hair hanging free down her back. She was clean, but not well fed, and couldn't be older than ten. Rain pattered on the window and thunder growled in the distance.

She lightly caressed the doll's smiling, bisque face with a tragic tenderness unfitting for her age.

The door opened. The man standing in the door reached down and picked her up easily, and the doll dropped with a muffled thud to the carpet. The girl wimpered once in painful expectation, but was then silent.

As the two disappeared into the dark hallway, lightening brightened the well-furnished room, shining through the heavy bars on the window, revealing its true purpose: a prison.

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The room was sparse and white, and freezing cold. She lay on a bloodstained table in the middle of the room, trembling with cold, fear, pain and nausea. But her eyes showed nothing, only a dull misery and hatred of life. Fresh bandages covered her arms. The man was washing his hands at a stone sink in the corner. Presently, he turned toward the girl, and picked her up again as easily as before. She bowed her head in quiet submission, cradling her bandaged hands in her lap. A clap of thunder sounded, and though the man started, almost dropping his burden, the girl did not respond. She was too far-gone for that.

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Adrian shot out of bed, jarring her ribs painfully and nearly falling out. She had bitten her lip almost clean through, in an effort not to scream. She knew that house in her dream, knew it far too well. It was a wrong house, a house where young, delicate things were cut, became stone and then shattered. Another thing best forgotten that had escaped Isobel's mental wall. How long would it be before all the other things escaped as well, and pitched her into a hellish madness?

Suddenly, she became aware of music playing not too far away. It came from an instrument she had never heard before, and sounded almost like human voices, but echoing and…different. Almost haunting.

He was playing again, but she noted (with some disappointment) that he wasn't singing. Sitting back to enjoy it, she let the ethereal sounds cloak the house and make it disappear.

It felt good not to feel anything for once. Not the gnawing fear, not the chill in her bones, the ache in her chest. Those things were secondary. Numbness was sweet and wonderful. Nothing remained but her desire to listen.

Perhaps it was hours, or only minutes, but for Adrian, the music went on eternally, and pushed her beyond numbness into a state of non-being. She no longer existed as a real person, only as music. Flitting about the room, glittering and unsubstantial, or flowing like heavy smoke.

So deep was her numbness, her nonexistence, that when the music stopped, she felt almost startled.

The silence that followed was long and cold, and she felt as if she was sitting in the dark, though the candles still burned brightly. But then, she was already dark beneath her own skin.

A sudden clink of cutlery brought her back to the present. It came to her suddenly that she had not eaten lunch. It was dinnertime. A knock sounded at the door.

Refusing to look up, for fear that he would know how the music affected her, she murmured, "Come in".

Only the shadows playing across the bed let her know that he had come nearer. The tray made a slight clicking sound as it hit the bedside table.

He paused for but a moment, before moving away.

"Your music is beautiful."

_Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn._

Adrian could have slapped herself. Hard. The words had just slipped out involuntarily. She hadn't meant to say anything at all. It always angered her most when the one thing she should have had control of, herself, did things she hadn't told it to.

Instinct made her looked up.

Why had she never noticed his high, prominent cheekbones hollowed by shadow, the thick, dark sheen of his hair? Maybe it was because he had never been so lit up like this. His pale skin almost radiated light. Perhaps his music was not only good for her, but for himself.

His head was tilted to the side, his eyebrow cocked as he scrutinized her. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, as if he was considering a smile. But, he seemed to decide against it, and only nodded in recognition before turning on his heel and walking away.

Adrian buried her face in her hands. She had been away from Isobel for almost a month, and yet she was still under her power. The rules stuck with her, even though Isobel was not there to enforce them. He had probably liked her compliment; it had not been out of place. But for all that, it was bad. She had broken the rules she despised so much. Adrian felt very sick, her feelings of emptiness and self-hatred clashing together in her head.

She _was_ sick, in more ways than one. Sick in mind, sick in body, sick in soul. Her dreams came roaring back now, accompanied by voices.

They clashed and swirled in a torrent of memory, and she did not realize that she was shaking until she had woken up from the confused haze. Clutching her arms to her sides, she eased back into the pillows, silently wishing for something she could not see, something that had been granted to everyone but her.

She had no idea that her host could see her shivering from the slightly opened door, and somehow understood.

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Erik turned away from the door, walking slowly down the hall, deep in thought.

He wanted to comfort her, but hadn't the first idea how. Christine had never talked to him about the sadder aspects of her life, so he had no practice. What person would come to him with their personal problems anyway? Brains were no substitue for basic human kindness, and while he was more than well aquainted with the former, he had no idea how to express the latter in a way suitable for his guest. Yet another problem to add to his generous supply.

The books had been a real step. She obviously liked reading, and seemed to enjoy someone reading to her. He had to wonder how she felt about his hasty departure. He had forgotten about that part of the book, and when he had found himself approaching it, he had thought he could handle it.

_Wrong. _

When he had stormed out, his brain had subconsciously attached those feelings of bitter anger to her, and he had found it impossible to go back to her a reasonable man. Actually, he had pretty much punished her by skipping her lunch. After he had some time for reflection, he had sobered down a bit, and began to play his organ, a sort of atonement for his rash behavior. As he calmed down even more, so did the music, until he was playing a gentle aria.

When he had gone back to her to serve dinner, her complement almost startled him into smiling. He blamed his carelessness on the after effects of the music.

He had left before the danger of becoming human presented itself. If she was going to be a machine, there was no way he would become anything else. In his personal dealings with her, he tried to keep a _serves you right_ mentality, if only to maintain his sanity. It was quite difficult to think one thing and act upon another.

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For once, the rain had slowed a bit. Only a sluggish drip sounded through the streets. Madame Bufont sighed. Oscar could go out and play today, but she would have to enlist the help of his nurse to keep him in the garden. He could not hope to venture outside the confines of the house and not be hurt. He was so precious to her…

The door unlocked easily. _Bertrand must have oiled it_, she thought. It was very useful to have her big friend living in the rooms upstairs. He was always ready and willing to do an odd job or watch Oscar for her. Had they been younger, they might have married, but Manon held to the rather old-fashioned idea that a girl should marry when she is young. At fifty, she did not consider herself young, and so M. Wagner and she would remain friends. Normally, she would have asked him to take care of Oscar while she went on a few errands and forfeited the cost of the nurse. But today, he was out on an errand of his own: checking the hospitals for signs of Adrian Cartier.

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Bertrand Wagner turned his face up to the sky. Now he could continue his errand in relative dryness. Taking out his list, he crossed off the hospital he had just visited. Out of those he had already checked, none seemed to have ever housed a petite blond with unusual eyes. He had at least two more large hospitals to go, and about twenty private practices. While he had to agree that Manon's theory that the diva had killed Frauline Cartier was very possible, he was a man who did not make assumptions before all the possibilities had been eliminated. Yesterday, he had questioned his entire staff, along with several dancers, chorus men and women and the manager, M. Andre. Today, he was checking medical practices. Tomorrow…well, tomorrow was tomorrow, and he had all of that day to think of his next steps. Smiling good-naturedly at a few children gawking at his gigantic proportions, he opened the doors of (yet another) hospital.

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Adrian awoke with an odd feeling that some empty recess in her core had been temporarily filled. He had started playing again quite some time after he had left the room. She could not remember falling asleep, only the warm, happy lullaby that had taken her there. Also, she had had no nightmares, just a feeling of security. Funny, how music could do that to you.

Suddenly remembering the book the man had not finished reading, she picked the heavy tome up, found where they had left off, and went back to reading. After his initial reading of Victor Hugo's great work, the rest was easier to understand. Now that she had the characters' backgrounds, she was more able to follow the story line. Jean Val Jean, the central character, was a man running from his past and trying to do his best for his beloved adopted daughter Cosette. Cosette, a naïve girl, had fallen deeply in love with the handsome Marius, a student caught up in an ill-fated revolution who returned Cosette's feelings. Eponine also loved Marius with a deep devotion, and gave her life for him, though he only ever saw her as a friend. Javier, a member of the police, pursued Jean Val Jean with single-minded ferocity, seeking only to do what he had always thought to be right: capture Val Jean, a former criminal.

It was at Eponine's death that he host had stopped. Had he been angry, or sad? His emotions had not been directed at the characters themselves, but at something written between the lines. Something that had happened to him, some tragic memory had forced him to leave the room before he had lost control of himself.

Eponine had little chance of ever capturing Marius's heart. She was much younger than he, and a street rat born into a squalid world to parents whose moral standards were far below the norm. Cosette was a bright, virtuous girl of his age from the upper class. Eponine loved him anyway, loved him so that she took a bullet to be near him as he fought a doomed revolution over the barricades with his friends against the government.

Was the man, in a strange way, akin to Eponine? Had he loved and lost to someone considered his better? Perhaps that was why he lived alone, in a house without windows. The outside world often reminds the bitter of their suffering. It is better to shut themselves away than relive that pain.

Unless he was hiding something horrendous underneath that white mask, she could not imagine him being forsaken for another man. Even in those few days she had known him, she had learned that he was intelligent, courteous, and artistic.

The other man might have been considered more handsome. He might have sported Sir Charles's conventional good looks, rather than her host's dark mystique. Now that she thought about it, those smoldering green eyes framed by dark lashes, that pale, angular, elegant face, that thick black hair, the catlike way he moved; wouldn't those things capture any girl's heart?

_Never mine. What heart have I to capture? _

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Tomorrow would be the last day. By tomorrow, she would be strong enough to live on her own. He would have to let her go back.

_**Damn** you Mlle. Daae, for this **damned** conscience that makes me do **damned** good things like let the **damned** woman go back to the **damned** world above. _

Combing his hair back carefully and smoothing his black leather gloves, Erik carefully assessed his appearance in his mirror. Perfect, as usual. He always took special care to make his dress as impeccable as possible. It was almost a way to make up for what he hid beneath the mask. Besides, he was a perfectionist in everything he did, whether it was the sound of a bar of music or the positioning of a cravat.

Going to his workroom, he picked up Adrian's gloves that he had made her in September. He would dose her food with laudanum to deepen her sleep. Before the next morning's light, he would have taken her back to her room. It would be better that way. Somehow he suspected that if she knew he lived below the Opera Populaire, her distrust of him would only deepen. This way, she would not know exactly where he was. Some American had said, "Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." Despite his desire to gain her trust, he was deeply anchored in his habits of caution, and felt safer when he alone knew where her was. But, just to make sure that she would not think those days in the dark were only a dream, he would leave the gift with her, along with a note. He would have to figure out how to continue seeing her at a later date. For now, he had only to tell her that the next was her last day.

_I wonder how she'll react._

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Nothing! Bertrand's search had turned up nothing! Not a single medical practice had seen Adrian Cartier at all. Monsieur Andre had been unhelpful in their search for where she lived. He only knew her name and who was employing her. According to him, she did not have a room in the Opera House, and so, she was not his concern. Not a single staff member could attest to having seen her around, no cafés had served her. She had disappeared off the face of the Earth.

In her eyes, the most solid proof that Mll. DeFleurette was the cause of Adrian's disappearance was the diva's nervous behavior when she was questioned about it. She started every time the name Cartier was mentioned, got flustered and answered snappishly. Her beaux didn't seem to know that anything was amiss. He only continued to throw wild parties in his mistress's suite, insult the elderly stagehands and steal silk flowers from the prop department. Occasionally, he would look surprised that the maid was no longer there, but other than that, he only continued to be a general nuisance. As usual.

The skies opened up again. Hoping that the nurse would have enough sense in her head to take the boy back inside, Manon hurried toward her small house. She had always had trouble trusting that nurse.

The garden was empty, but for the withered stalks of plants long taken by autumn's bite. Breathing a sigh of relief, she ascended the stairs to her door. Sudden noises from inside made her hurry in, and what she saw pitched her into a boiling rage.

"SHUT UP! NOW!" The young woman shook him by the collar. Hard. Much too hard.

"Angelica, what is the meaning of this?"

The girl looked up, flustered, but still resolved. "Madame, he has to learn some kind of obedience to me, or he'll always be this way…"

Snatching her sniffling grandson from Angelica's clutches, Manon hushed the child, holding him close. No one should ever shake a boy in his condition! She had no right to hurt him, no right to talk to him that way, and especially no right to talk about him like that.

"I'm sorry Madame, it won't happen again."

Manon nodded, kissing Oscar's forehead gently. Angelica was right, it would not happen again. And if it did…well, pity the offender.

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She had taken it as he had thought she would: no emotion. She had thanked him of course, and with utmost politeness, but nothing else. If she was faking, she was an excellent actress.

Erik opened the door to his room, closing it carefully behind him. He would have a long day ahead of him tomorrow, and needed sleep. Even the black lacquered coffin looked semi-inviting.

Lying down and shutting the lid over him, he mulled over the last three days. Saving her from certain death and nursing her back to health had created a bond between them, that was certain. She was indebted to him, and she probably knew it. He wasn't about to use this in an extortionist manner, demanding something from her in repayment for his services. However, a feeling of be indebted might speed their friendship and make her closer to him in time. Nothing he planned would be easy to accomplish. He knew that. It would all take a long while and much effort on his part. Her protective shell would not be easily cracked. It was much too thick.

But he would be a damned fool if he did not try.

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Adrian tried to sleep, but found it impossible. Her eminent departure weighed on her mind and kept her from slumber. He had told her that she would be back in her room before the day after tomorrow, and she believed him.

She wasn't exactly sure how she felt about it. She had thanked him politely, emotionless as always, and he had copied her to the letter. One thought kept resurfacing though she strained to silence it. _Will he miss me? _His heroic rescue of her and willingness to help her recover had bonded her to him. His magic, his music, everything about him had become almost familiar. Another question surfaced. _Will I miss him? _

Turning on her side (her ribs no longer hurt so much), she closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to become the woman Isobel had been turning her into: a stone statue, perfectly numb. Numbness kept you from missing those things you could not have. Did a statue ever wish to come to life? No. It was content to stay frozen in its place, for it had no heart with which to wish. And she had no heart either, if she willed it to stay frozen.

Adrian had come to think of the room she now lay in as _her _room, the bad as _her_ bed. She did not want to leave.

But she had to. How was she to ask a total stranger to house her for longer than he had? Besides, if Isobel found her there, the price would be his head. More than anything, she did not want that.

The solution was simple in concept, but would not be simple to carry out. She could never think of him again. Ever. She would have to forget him for good, forget the dark house, filled with beautiful music. Those things would just be pushed into the darkness with all the others. Remembered happiness was only another door to sadness.

If she had been another woman, Adrian Cartier would have cried.

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**GASP! I UPDATED IN LESS THAN A MONTH! PANIC!** Oh, by the way, when Erik quotes " some American " it's Ben Franklin. Cheers!


	19. Chapter 19 Farewell for Now

Gently, very gently, Erik pushed back the covers and lifted Adrian slowly into his arms, stopping completely when she groaned in her sleep. But she didn't awaken, and her carried her out of his house.

The boat rocked gently as Erik placed her inside. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was this delicate. Even sleep did little to soften her features. He could probably snap her arm in half without too much effort-_not that I would dare try while she was conscious_-, but no one could ever guess that just by looking.

The boat pushed off with a single jab of the staff. After that, the only sound was water sloshing against the sides, the only thing to see the small sphere of light created by the lantern.

Oblivious to the world, Adrian slumbered in the front of the boat, the lantern hollowing her face with shadows.

It was impossible to tell exactly how large the cavern was with such a small light. He was only able to find his way across through years of practice. It wasn't at all threatening to him now, even though the darkness covered every surface untouched by light. Another man might feel as if some giant beast was looming in the darkness of the lake, ready to grab him at a moment's notice. A year ago, that would have been partially true, but the siren was Erik's own trick, and so, the shadows were no threat to him. Darkness was home.

Adrian stirred, turning in her sleep as if making a feeble attempt to fight the depressant he had laced her food with earlier.

He thought back to when he had drugged her. _What did she suspect? The look on her face…but how could she know? She took the food anyway. Would she have done that if she thought I was trying to drug her? Taking food from a stranger while not in a state of starvation requires a measure of trust…or stupidity. Did I betray her trust? _

The feeling was still nagging him as the boat touched the opposite shore. He had to admit, if he had had a choice, he would have abandoned such a measure. But, as it was, knocking her out was the best course of action.

Picking her up easily, he began the long climb back to the world above.

Over the years, the stairs had become less and less of a problem. Climbing them was easier after doing it over a thousand times. He had never attempted going up with extra human luggage though…

After almost a half an hour, his muscles were beginning to burn from the strain. As light as she was, any burden was hard to carry for that long in those conditions. And still he climbed, up an up and up into the inner workings of the Opera House, carefully counting the floors he passed.

_Of course her room is almost the top floor. This would be far too easy if it wasn't. _He looked down at her, supremely envious that she had someone to carry her and he didn't.

That last day had been a very strange one. He had been stuck between wanting to spend every one of those last hours with her, and distancing himself in fear that she would discover even a fraction of what was on his mind. He had decided not to play any music, unsure of what it would reveal to her (and himself). When the day had begun, he had promised himself that letting her go, while not easy, would not be too hard. He was unsure enough of his own credibility to stay holed up in his library until mealtimes, reading his dullest textbooks in order to bridle his thoughts.

Every time he came into the room with a meal, she watched him like a wolf watches a hunter, wary and suspicious, waiting for the sound of gunshot. He would have given all the money he possessed to know her thoughts. Not that she wouldn't give them up without a fight.

His footsteps echoed through the empty stone halls so loudly, he feared she would awaken. Why was it that every sound became many times exaggerated while one was trying not to make too much noise? She did stir in her sleep a few times, but other than that, the drug worked perfectly.

Finally, he reached her room. Sliding the mirror aside, he put her in bed. He then sat down, regaining his what little strength he had lost.

_So far, so good._ Pulling out the gloves, he slid them easily onto her hands, and tied a small note to her finger. Perfection. And they fit flawlessly on her hand, as he had known they would.

Stepping behind the mirror, he wrapped his cloak about him and settled down to wait. While he had never been a patient man, there were some things that required the rather annoying virtue, and he had the capacity to sit there till she awoke. The drug would wear off an hour or so before dawn. It was twelve at night. He had quite a while to wait.

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She was trapped in yards of grey, gauzy fabric with no way out, no matter how she tried to turn. For hours, the dream persisted in the same monotonous fashion, with no variation at all. As time went by, she seemed to be winning the battle against the grey, but very, very slowly. After many hours of painfully slow, weak struggles, she felt the haze lift little by little, until it became…

Her room. Her real room, not a borrowed one in a stranger's house.

Sitting up groggily, she tried to remember how she had gotten there. Had she run away? No, she would remember if she had. He must have brought her here, exactly as he had promised.

Food. He had given her something to eat, and then…

_Damn it, he drugged me! _

Biting her lip to control her anger, she took deep breaths, trying to calm the pulsing heat in her veins. He had drugged her, and she had begun to feel as if she might possibly trust him if she had more time to know him.

Once more, she had managed to be wrong.

That was when she noticed the gloves.

She raised her hands slowly in front of her face, the pearly red of a cloudy sunrise streaming into the window. Black kid of exquisite quality lined with cream-colored silk. They fit her perfectly, snug to ward off cold, but loose enough to allow movement. A note was tied to her thumb.

Mlle. Cartier,

It's cold outside. I hope these will do for protection.

Erik

Tearing the paper off of its slender thread, she inspected every bit of it, searching for something else, anything else. _So, he does have a name. _A first name, anyway. It was a bit strange to see her own made up surname followed by such an informal address. The message itself was exactly as she would have expected: short, unfeeling and to the point. So, he knew about the gloves she had needed. The pair he had given her was very well made indeed. Every stitch was even and tight, the silk lining unpuckered, the kid smooth and almost skin-like to the touch. Alright, he was a skillful craftsman. Or, more likely, he knew a great deal about quality goods.

Peeling them off, she looked at the gloves, her brows furrowed in thought. _Should I take these? They must certainly have cost a great deal. But how would I give them back? And why did he give me these anyway?_

_He gave me these… _

Suddenly, all cynical thoughts vanished. He had not given them to her for his personal gain, not to curry favor or lead her into a trap. It was simply a gift, because he knew how much she needed something to protect her hands. As for drugging her…while she could not condone it, she had to admit that he must have had his reasons. Secrecy was the most probable one. Besides, he was a gentleman in every way, and not just because he dressed like one and carried a title like Sir Charles. He acted like one, always addressing her in that courteous voice. Her mind drifted back to the day he had taken her hand to keep from falling. Yes, he-Erik, now-was a real gentleman.

_What's happened to you? A week out of the sun and you get soft in the head._ Sliding the gloves onto her hands again (the room was rather cold after her absence) she flexed her long fingers. A gift... it had been a long time since she'd had one of those. A long, long time, far away from the Opera Populaire and Erik.

Rubbing the kid against her skin, she mulled over every aspect of her week in Erik's home. She had been warm, fed and well treated, with books to read and music to listen to._ Isobel would skin me alive if she knew._

But Isobel _didn't_ know. And that was the pivotal point of her decision.

Tugging on the gloves smartly, she placed them on her bedside table, ready for the next day, and climbed back into bed. She had work in the morning, and she was not one to show up late for lack of sleep.

Unbeknownst to her, Erik stood up stiffly and strode towards his home.

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Waking from her deep, deep, deep sleep, Deborah DeFleurette stretched and yawned. She hated getting up early, but how else was one to prepare for one's day?

Mlle. Cartier helped her into the chiffon thing Deborah called a dressing gown, pulled out her easy chair and poured her a glass of water. Drinking this, she stood up and pointed lazily to her corset.

As the laces tightened, she felt as if something was amiss, though she couldn't put her finger on it. They tightened still more, and the feeling that all was not right increased. At the final tug, it came rushing back to her, and she fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

_Adrian Cartier is dead! I killed her myself!_

Pacing about in a state of deep distress, she ran over all possibilities.

_Maybe she caught on to something and survived. YES! That has to be it. I never saw her hit the ground. Either that or I only imagined that I pushed her out of the window. But what is she doing here now?_

Taking a long drink of water, she focused her thoughts.

_Adrian Cartier is not dead. She knows I tried to kill her (unless I only imagined that) but she's come back anyway. Perhaps she can't get another job. Or maybe the fall addled her brains. Not that they weren't already rattled. She's always been a queer one._

Her mind continued in this way for at least five minutes until she decided to ask Adrian Cartier about it.

Opening the door, she immediately faced her maid, who was standing close to the door.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

Pushing her thick hair behind an ear, Deborah quickly gathered herself.

"Mlle. Cartier, where have you been?"

The woman looked almost confused, and then her face became a stone slab once more.

"I was sick, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry I was unable to notify you."

Deborah nodded sagely. So _that_ was what she was saying.

Perhaps she was gone and I did imagine I killed her. It was rather early, so maybe I dreamed it…

There was nothing for it. She would have to kill her again. But not before finding another maid. The last week had been rough without someone to lace her corset, mend her clothes, fix her hair, polish her shoe buckles, brush her cat, straighten her rooms, organize her cosmetics, carry her shopping bags, go on errands and a thousand other little things.

She would have to find a slow working poison that could not be traced and would be mistaken for some illness. And if that didn't work…well, she'd just have to get a little creative.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

**My dear readers,**

**I am going away for the summer, to a place with no computer. I'm very sorry, but please do not expect another update till the end of the summer. Thanks for being understanding (unless you aren't, because in that case, I don't thank you and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!)**

**Sincerely,**

**T.H.**


End file.
